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PEPACTON 


BY 


JOHN   BURROUGHS 

AUTHOR  OP  "  WAKE  ROBIN,"  "WINTER  SUNSHINE,"  "BIRDS  AND  POETS,' 
AND  "LOCUSTS  AND  WILD  HONBY" 


SEVENTH  EDITION 


BOSTON 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 
New  York:  11  East  Seventeenth  Street 


1887 


Copyright,  1881, 
BY  JOHN  BURROUGHS. 


All  rights  reserved. 


EIVEKSIDE,  CAMBRIDGE  : 

STEREOTYPED    AND    PRINTED   BY 

H.  0.  HOUGHTON  AND  COMPANY. 


I  HAVE  all  the  more  pleasure  in  calling  my  book 
after  the  title  of  the  first  chapter,  "  Pepacton,"  be- 
cause this  is  the  Indian  name  of  my  native  stream. 
In  its  water-shed  I  was  born  and  passed  my  youth, 
and  here  on  its  banks  my  kindred  sleep.  Here,  also, 
I  have  gathered  much  of  the  harvest,  poor  though  it 
be,  that  I  have  putHn  this  and  in  previous  volumes 
of  my  writings. 

The  term  "  Pepacton  "  is  said  to  mean  "  marriage 
of  the  waters  ; "  and  with  this  significance  it  suits  my 
purpose  well,  as  this  book  is  also  a  union  of  many 
currents. 

The  Pepacton  rises  in  a  deep  cleft  or  gorge  in  the 
mountains,  the  scenery  of  which  is  of  the  wildest  and 
ruggedest  character.  For  a  mile  or  more  there  is 
barely  room  for  the  road  and  the  creek  at  the  bottom 
of  the  chasm.  On  either  hand  the  mountains,  inter- 
rupted by  shelving,  overhanging  precipices,  rise  ab- 
ruptly to  a  great  height.  About  half  a  century  ago 
a  pious  Scotch  family,  just  arrived  in  this  country, 
came  through  this  gorge.  One  of  the  little  boys, 
gazing  upon  the  terrible  desolation  of  the  scene,  so 


IV  PEEFACE. 

unlike  in  its  savage  and  inhuman  aspects  anything  he 
had  ever  seen  at  home,  nestled  close  to  his  mother, 
and  asked  with  bated  breath,  "  Mither,  is  there  a 
God  here?" 

Yet  the  Pepacton  is  a  placid  current,  especially  in 
its  upper  portions  where  my  youth  fell ;  but  all  its 
tributaries  are  swift  mountain  brooks  fed  by  springs 
the  best  in  the  world.  It  drains  a  high  pastoral 
country  lifted  into  long,  round-backed  hills  and  rug- 
ged, wooded  ranges  by  the  subsiding  impulse  of  the 
Catskill  range  of  mountains,  and  famous  for  its  supe 
rior  dairy  and  other  farm  products.  It  is  many  long 
years  since,  with  the  restlessness  of  youth,  I  broke 
away  from  the  old  ties  amid  those  hills ;  but  my 
heart  has  always  been  there  ;  and  why  should  I  not 
come  back  and  name  one  of  my  books  for  the  old 
stream  ? 


CONTENTS. 


PASB 
PEPACTOK:  A  SUMMER  VOYAGE 7 

SPRINGS 43 

AN  IDYL  OP  THE  HONEY-BEE 63 

NATURE  AND  THE  POETS 91 

NOTES  BY  THE  WAY 131 

FOOT-PATHS 195 

A  BUNCH  OF  HERBS      .        .       .       .        .       .       .       .207 

WINTER  PICTURES      .  ......      937 


PEPACTON:   A   SUMMER   VOYAGE. 


PEPACTON:  A  SUMMER  VOYAGE. 

WHEN  one  summer  day  I  bethought  me  of  a  voy- 
age down  the  east  or  Pepacton  branch  of  the  Dela- 
ware, I  seemed  to  want  some  excuse  for  the  start, 
some  send-off,  some  preparation,  to  give  the  enterprise 
genesis  and  head.  This  I  found  in  building  my  own 
boat.  It  was  a  happy  thought.  How  else  should  I 
have  got  under  way,  how  else  should  I  have  raised  the 
breeze?  The  boat-building  warmed  the  blood;  it 
made  the  germ  take,  it  whetted  my  appetite  for  the 
voyage.  There  is  nothing  like  serving  an  apprentice- 
ship to  fortune,  like  earning  the  right  to  your  tools. 
In  most  enterprises  the  temptation  is  always  to  begin 
too  far  along ;  we  want  to  start  where  somebody  else 
leaves  off.  Go  back  to  the  stump,  and  see  what  an 
impetus  you  get.  Those  fishermen  who  wind  their 
own  flies  before  they  go  a-fishing,  —  how  they  bring 
ui  the  trout ;  and  those  hunters  who  run  their  own 
bullets  or  make  their  own  cartridges,  —  the  game  is 
already  mortgaged  to  them. 

When  my  boat  was  finished  —  and  it  was  a  very 
simple  affair  —  I  was  eager  as  a  boy  to  be  off;  I 


10      PEPACTON  :  A  SUMMER  VOYAGE. 

feared  the  river  would  all  run  by  before  I  could  wet 
her  bottom  in  it.  This  enthusiasm  begat  great 
expectations  of  the  trip.  I  should  surely  surprise 
nature  and  win  some  new  secrets  from  her.  I  should 
glide  down  noiselessly  upon  her  and  see  what  all 
those  willow  screens  and  baffling  curves  concealed. 
As  a  fisherman  and  pedestrian  I  had  been  able  to 
come  at  the  stream  only  at  certain  points ;  now  the 
most  private  and  secluded  retreats  of  the  nymph 
would  be  opened  to  me ;  every  bend  and  eddy,  every 
cove  hedged  in  by  swamps  or  passage  walled  in  by 
high  alders,  would  be  at  the  beck  of  my  paddle. 

Whom  shall  one  take  with  him  when  he  goes 
a-courting  nature  ?  This  is  always  a  vital  question. 
There  are  persons  who  will  stand  between  you  and 
that  which  you  seek  :  they  obtrude  themselves  ;  they 
monopolize  your  attention ;  they  blunt  your  sense  of 
the  shy,  half-reyealed  intelligences  about  you.  I 
want  for  companion  a  dog  or  a  boy,  or  a  person 
who  has  the  virtues  of  dogs  and  boys,  —  transparency, 
good  nature,  curiosity,  open  sense,  and  a  nameless 
quality  that  is  akin  to  trees  and  growths  and  the  in- 
articulate forces  of  nature.  With  him  you  are  alone, 
and  yet  have  company ;  you  are  free ;  you  feel  no 
disturbing  element;  the  influences  of  nature  stream 
through  him  and  around  him  ;  he  is  a  good  conductor 
of  the  subtle  fluid.  The  quality  or  qualification  I 
refer  to  belongs  to  most  persons  who  spend  their  lives 
in  the  open  air,  —  to  soldiers,  hunters,  fishers,  labor 
era,  and  to  artists  and  poets  of  the  right  sort.  How 


PEPACTON:    A   SUMMER  VOYAGE.  11 

full  of  it,  to  choose  an  illustrious  example,  was  such  a 
man  as  Walter  Scott ! 

But  no  such  person  came  in  answer  to  my  prayer, 
so  I  set  out  alone. 

It  was  fit  that  I  put  my  boat  into  the  water  at 
Arkville,  but  it  may  seem  a  little  incongruous  that  I 
should  launch  her  into  Dry  Brook ;  yet  Dry  Brock 
is  here  a  fine  large  trout  stream,  arid  I  soon  found  its 
waters  were  "wet  enough  for  all  practical  purposes. 
The  Delaware  is  only  one  mile  distant,  and  I  chose 
this  as  the  easiest  road  from  the  station  to  it.  A 
young  farmer  helped  me  carry  the  boat  to  the  water, 
but  did  not  stay  to  see  me  oif ;  only  some  calves  feed- 
ing along  shore  witnessed  my  embarkation.  It  would 
have  been  a  godsend  to  boys  but  there  were  no  boys 
about.  I  stuck  on  a  rift  before  I  had  gone  ten  yards, 
and  saw  with  misgiving  the  paint  transferred  from 
the  bottom  of  my  little  scow  to  the  tops  of  the  stones 
thus  early  in  the  journey.  But  I  was  soon  making 
fair  headway,  and  taking  trout  for  my  dinner  as  I 
floated  along.  My  first  mishap  was  when  I  broke 
the  second  joint  of  my  rod  on  a  bass,  and  the  first 
serious  impediment  to  my  progress  was  when  I  en- 
countered the  trunk  of  a  prostrate  elm  bridging  the 
stream,  within  a  few  inches  of  the  surface.  My  rod 
mended  and  the  elm  cleared,  I  anticipated  better  sail- 
ing when  I  should  reach  the  Delaware  itself ;  but  I 
found  on  this  day  and  on  subsequent  days  that  the 
Delaware  has  a  way  of  dividing  up  that  is  very  em- 
barrassing to  the  navigator.  It  is  a  stream  of  many 


12  PEPACTON:   A   SUMMER  VOYAGE. 

minds  :  its  waters  cannot  long  agree  to  go  all  in  the 
same  channel,  and  whichever  branch  I  took  I  waa 
pretty  sure  to  wish  I  had  taken  one  of  the  others.  I 
was  constantly  sticking  on  rifts,  where  I  would  have 
to  dismount,  or  running  full  tilt  into  willow  banks, 
where  I  would  lose  my  hat  or  endanger  my  fishing 
tackle.  On  the  whole,  the  result  of  my  first  day's 
voyaging  was  not  encouraging.  I  made  barely  eight 
miles,  and  my  ardor  was  a  good  deal  dampened,  to 
say  nothing  about  my  clothing.  In  mid-afternoon 
I  went  to  a  well-to-do-looking  farm-house  and  got 
some  milk,  which  I  am  certain  the  thrifty  housewife 
skimmed,  for  its  blueness  infected  my  spirits,  and  I 
went  into  camp  that  night  more  than  half  persuaded 
to  abandon  the  enterprise  in  the  morning.  The  lone- 
liness of  the  river,  too,  unlike  that  of  the  fields  and 
woods,  to  which  I  was  more  accustomed,  oppressed 
me.  In  the  woods  things  are  close  to  you,  and  you 
touch  them  and  seem  to  interchange  something  with 
them ;  but  upon  the  river,  even  though  it  be  a  nar- 
row and  shallow  one  like  this,  you  are  more  isolated, 
farther  removed  from  the  soil  and  its  attractions,  and 
an  easier  prey  to  the  unsocial  demons.  The  long, 
unpeopled  vistas  ahead.;  the  still,  dark  eddies  ;  the 
endless  monotone  and  soliloquy  of  the  stream ;  the 
unheeding  rocks  basking  like  monsters  along  the 
shore,  half  out  of  the  water,  half  in  ;  a  solitary  heron 
starting  up  here  and  there,  as  you  rounded  some 
point,  and  flapping  disconsolately  ahead  till  lost  to 
?iew,  or  standing  like  a  gaunt  spectre  on  the  um 


PEPACTON  :   A   SUMMER   VOYAGE.  13 

brageous  side  of  the  mountain,  his  motionless  form 
revealed  against  the  dark  green  as  you  passed ;  the 
trees  and  willows  and  alders  that  hemmed  you  in  on 
either  side,  and  hid  the  fields  and  the  farm-houses 
and  the  road  that  ran  near  by,  —  these  things  and 
others  aided  the  skimmed  milk  to  cast  a  gloom  over 
my  spirits  that  argued  ill  for  the  success  of  my  un- 
dertaking. Those  rubber  boots,  too,  that  parboiled 
my  feet  and  were  clogs  of  lead  about  them,  —  whose 
spirits  are  elastic  enough  to  endure  them  ?  A  male- 
diction upon  the  head  of  him  who  invented  them! 
Take  your  old  shoes  that  will  let  the  water  in  and 
let  it  out  again,  rather  than  stand  knee  deep  all  day 
in  these  extinguishers. 

I  escaped  from  the  river,  that  first  night,  and  took 
to  the  woods,  and  profited  by  the  change.  In  the 
woods  I  was  at  home  again,  and  the  bed  of  hemlock 
boughs  salved  my  spirits.  A  cold  spring  run  camo 
down  off  the  mountain,  and  beside  it,  underneath 
birches  and  hemlocks,  I  improvised  my  hearth-stone. 
In  sleeping  on  the  ground  it  is  a  great  advantage  to 
have  a  back-log ;  it  braces  and  supports  you,  and  it 
is  a  bedfellow  that  will  not  grumble  when,  in  the 
middle  of  the  night,  you  crowd  sharply  up  against 
it.  It  serves  to  keep  in  the  warmth,  also.  A  heavy 
stone  or  other  point  de  resistance  at  your  feet  is  also 
a  help.  Or,  better  still,  scoop  out  a  little  place  in 
the  earth,  a  few  inches  deep,  so  as  to  admit  your 
body  from  your  hips  to  your  shoulders ;  you  thus  get 
an  equal  bearing  the  whole  length  of  you.  I  am  told 


14          PEPACTON:  A  SUMMER  VOYAGE. 

the  Western  hunters  and  guides  do  this.  On  the 
same  principle,  the  sand  makes  a  good  bed,  and  the 
snow.  You  make  a  mold  in  which  you  fit  nicely. 
My  berth  that  night  was  between  two  logs  that  the 
bark-peelers  had  stripped  ten  or  more  years  before. 
As  they  had  left  the  bark  there,  and  as  homlock  bark 
makes  excellent  fuel,  I  had  more  reasons  than  one  to 
be  grateful  to  them. 

In  the  morning  I  felt  much  refreshed,  and  as  if 
the  night  had  tided  me  over  the  bar  that  threatened 
to  stay  my  progress.  If  I  can  steer  clear  of  skimmed 
milk,  I  said,  I  shall  now  finish  the  voyage  of  fifty 
miles  to  Hancock  with  increasing  pleasure. 

When  one  breaks  camp  in  the  morning,  he  turns 
back  again  and  again  to  see  what  he  has  left.  Surely 
he  feels  he  has  forgotten  something ;  what  is  it  ?  But 
it  is  only  his  own  sad  thoughts  and  musings  he  has 
left,  the  fragment  of  his  life  he  has  lived  there. 
Where  he  hung  his  coat  on  the  tree,  where  he  slept 
on  the  boughs,  where  he  made  his  coffee  or  broiled 
his  trout  over  the  coals,  where  he  drank  again  and 
again  at  the  little  brown  pool  in  the  spring  run, 
where  he  looked  long  and  long  up  into  the  whisper- 
ing branches  overhead^  he  has  left  what  he  cannot 
bring  away  with  him,  —  the  flame  and  the  ashes  of 
himself. 

Of  certain  game  birds  it  is  thought  that  at  times 
they  have  the  power  of  withholding  their  scent ;  no 
hint  or  particle  of  themselves  goes  out  upon  the  air. 
I  think  there  are  persons  whose  spiritual  pores  are 


PEPACTON:  A  SUMMER  VOYAGE.  15 

always  sealed  up,  and  I  presume  they  have  the  best 
time  of  it.  Their  hearts  never  radiate  into  the  void  ^ 
they  do  not  yearn  and  sympathize  without  return  ^ 
they  do  not  leave  themselves  by  the  wayside  as  the- 
sheep  leaves  her  wool  upon  the  brambles  and  thorns.. 
This  branch  of  the  Delaware,  so  far  as  I  could 
learn,  had  never  before  been  descended  by  a  white 
man  in  a  boat.  Rafts  of  pine  and  hemlock  timber 
are  run  down  on  the  spring  and  fall  freshets,  but  of 
pleasure  seekers  in  boats  I  appeared  to  be  the  first. 
Hence  my  advent  was  a  surprise  to  most  creatures  in 
the  water  and  out.  I  surprised  the  cattle  in  the  field,, 
and  those  ruminating  leg-deep  in  the  water  turned 
their  heads  at  my  approach,  swallowed  their  unfin- 
ished cuds,  and  scampered  off  as  if  they  had  seen  a 
spectre.  I  surprised  the  fish  on  their  spawning  beds 
and  feeding  grounds ;  they  scattered,  as  my  shadow 
glided  down  upon  them,  like  chickens  when  a  hawk 
appears.  I  surprised  an  ancient  fisherman  seated  on 
a  spit  of  gravelly  beach,  with  his  back  up  stream,  and 
leisurely  angling  in  a  deep,  still  eddy,  and  mumbling 
to  himself.  As  I  slid  into  the  circle  of  his  vision  his 
grip  on  his  pole  relaxed,  his  jaw  dropped,  and  he  was 
too  bewildered  to  reply  to  my  salutation  for  some 
moments.  As  I  turned  a  bend  in  the  river  I  looked 
back,  and  saw  him  hastening  away  with  great  precip- 
itation. I  presume  he  had  angled  there  for  forty 
years  without  having  his  privacy  thus  intruded  upon. 
[  surprised  hawks  and  herons  and  kingfishers.  I 
came  suddenly  upon  musk-rats,  and  raced  with  them 


16  PEPACTON:  A  SUMMER  VOYAGE. 

down  the  rifts,  they  having  no  time  to  take  to  their 
holes.  At  one  point,  as  I  rounded  an  elbow  in  the 
stream,  a  black  eagle  sprang  from  the  top  of  a  dead 
tree,  and  flapped  hurriedly  away.  A  kingbird  gave 
chase,  and  disappeared  for  some  moments  in  the  gulf 
between  the  great  wings  of  the  eagle,  and  I  imagined 
him  seated  upon  his  back  delivering  his  puny  blows 
upon  the  royal  bird.  I  interrupted  two  or  three 
minks  fishing  and  hunting  along  shore.  They  would 
dart  under  the  bank  when  they  saw  me,  then  pres- 
ently thrust  out  their  sharp,  weasel-like  noses,  to  see 
if  the  danger  was  imminent.  At  one  point,  in  a  little 
cove  behind  the  willows,  I  surprised  some  school- 
girls, with  skirts  amazingly  abbreviated,  wading  and 
playing  in  the  water.  And  as  much  surprised  as 
any,  I  am  sure,  was  that  hard-worked  looking  house- 
wife, when  I  came  up  from  under  the  bank  in  front 
of  her  house,  and  with  pail  in  hand  appeared  at  her 
door  and  asked  for  milk,  taking  the  precaution  to  in- 
timate that  I  had  no  objection  to  the  yellow  scum 
that  is  supposed  to  rise  on  a  fresh  article  of  that  kind. 

"  What  kind  of  milk  do  you  want?  " 

"  The  best  you  have.  Give  -me  two  quarts  of  it," 
I  replied. 

"  What  do  you  want  to  do  with  it  ?  "  with  an  anx- 
ious tone,  as  if  I  might  want  to  blow  up  something 
or  burn  her  barns  with  it. 

"  Oh,  drink  it,"  I  answered,  as  if  I  frequently  put 
milk  to  that  use. 

"  Well,  I  suppose  I  can  get  you  some; "  and  she 


PEPACTON:  A  SUMMER  VOYAGE.          17 

presently  reappeared  with  swimming  pail,  with  those 
little  yellow  flakes  floating  about  upon  it  that  one 
likes  to  see. 

I  passed  several  low  dams  the  second  day,  but  had 
no  trouble.  I  dismounted  and  stood  upon  the  apron, 
and  the  boat,  with  plenty  of  line,  came  over  as 
lightly  as  a  chip,  and  swung  around  in  the  eddy  be- 
low like  a  steed  that  knows  its  master.  In  the  after- 
noon, while  slowly  drifting  down  a  long  eddy,  the 
moist  southwest  wind  brought  me  the  welcome  odor 
of  strawberries,  and  running  ashore  by  a  meadow,  a 
short  distance  below,  I  was  soon  parting  the  daisies 
and  filling  my  cup  with  the  dead-ripe  fruit.  Berries, 
be  they  red,  blue,  or  black,  seem  like  a  special  provi- 
dence to  the  camper-out ;  they  are  luxuries  he  has 
not  counted  on,  and  I  prized  these  accordingly. 
Later  in  the  day  it  threatened  rain,  and  I  drew  up  to 
shore  under  the  shelter  of  some  thick  overhanging 
hemlocks,  and  proceeded  to  eat  my  berries  and  milk, 
glad  of  an  excuse  not  to  delay  my  lunch  longer. 
While  tarrying  here  I  heard  young  voices  up  stream, 
and  looking  in  that  direction  saw  two  boys  coming 
down  the  rapids  on  rude  floats.  They  were  racing 
along  at  a  lively  pace,  each  with  a  pole  in  his  hand, 
dexterously  avoiding  the  rocks  and  the  breakers,  and 
echooling  themselves  thns  early  in  the  duties  and 
perils  of  the  raftsmen.  As  they  saw  me  one  observed 
to  the  other, — 

u  There  is  the  man  we  saw  go  by  when  we  were 
building  onr  floats.  If  we  had  known  he  was  coming 
2 


18          PEP  ACTON:  A  SUMMER  VOYAGE. 

so  far,  may  be  we  could  have  got  him  to  give  us  a 
ride." 

They  drew  near,  guided  their  crafts  to  shore  beside 
me,  and  tied  up,  their  poles  answering  for  hawsers. 
They  proved  to  be  Johnny  and  Denny  Dwire,  aged 
ten  and  twelve.  They  were  friendly  boys,  and 
though  not  a  bit  bashful  were  not  a  bit  impertinent. 
And  Johnny,  who  did  the  most  of  the  talking,  had 
such  a  sweet,  musical  voice ;  it  was  like  a  bird's.  It 
seems  Denny  had  run  away,  a  day  or  two  before,  to 
his  uncle's,  five  miles  above,  and  Johnny  had  been 
after  him,  and  was  bringing  his  prisoner  home  on  a 
float ;  and  it  was  hard  to  tell  which  was  enjoying  the 
fun  most,  the  captor  or  the  captured. 

"  Why  did  you  run  away  ?  "  said  I  to  Denny. 

"  Oh,  'cause,"  replied  he,  with  an  air  which  said 
plainly,  "The  reasons  are  too  numerous  to  mention." 

"  Boys,  you  know,  will  do  so,  sometimes,"  said 
Johnny,  and  he  smiled  upon  his  brother  in  a  way 
that  made  me  think  they  had  a  very  good  under- 
standing upon  the  subject. 

They  could  both  swim,  yet  their  floats  looked  very 
perilous  :  three  pieces  of  old  plank  or  slabs,  with  two 
cross-pieces  and  a  frag'ment  of  a  board  for  a  rider, 
and  made  without  nails  or  withes. 

"In  some  places,  said  Johnny,  "one  plank  was 
here  and  another  off  there,  but  we  managed,  some- 
how, to  keep  atop  of  them." 

"  Let 's  leave  our  floats  here,  and  ride  with  hin 
the  rest  of  the  way,"  said  one  to  the  other. 


U    X 

it  i  '        a 

PEPACTON:  A  suMMteWRN        19 


"All  right;  may  we,  Mister?  " 

I  assented,  and  we  were  soon  afloat  again.  How 
they  enjoyed  the  passage  ;  how  smooth  it  was  ;  how 
the  boat  glided  along  ;  how  quickly  she  felt  the  pad* 
die  !  They  admired  her  much  ;  they  praised  my 
steersmanship  ;  they  praised  my  fish-pole  and  all  my 
fixings  down  to  my  hateful  rubber  boots.  When  we 
stuck  on  the  rifts,  as  we  did  several  times,  they  leaped 
out  quickly  with  their  bare  feet  and  legs,  and  pushed 
us  off. 

"  I  think,"  said  Johnny,  "  if  you  keep  her  straight 
and  let  her  have  her  own  way,  she  will  find  the 
deepest  water.  Don't  you,  Denny  ?  " 

"  I  think  she  will,"  replied  Denny  ;  and  I  found 
the  boys  were  pretty  nearly  right. 

I  tried  them  on  a  point  of  natural  history.  I  had 
observed,  coming  along,  a  great  many  dead  eels  lying 
on  the  bottom  of  the  river,  that  I  supposed  had  died 
from  spear  wounds.  "  No,"  said  Johnny,  "  they  are 
lamper-eels.  They  die  as  soon  as  they  have  built 
their  nests  and  laid  their  eggs." 

"  Are  you  sure  ?  " 

"  That  's  what  they  all  say,  and  I  know  they  are 
lampers." 

So  I  fished  one  up  out  of  the  deep  water  with  my 
paddle-blade,  and  examined  it  ;  and  sure  enough  it 
was  a  lamprey.  There  was  the  row  of  holes  along 
its  head,  and  its  ugly  suction  mouth.  I  had  noticed 
their  nests,  too,  all  along,  where  the  water  in  the 
pools  shallowed  to  a  few  feet  and  began  to  hurry  to- 


20      PEPACTON:  A  SUMMER  VOYAGE. 

ward  the  rifts  :  they  were  low  mounds  of  small  stones, 
as  if  a  bushel  or  more  of  large  pebbles  had  been 
dumped  upon  the  river  bottom  ;  occasionally  they 
were  so  near  the  surface  as  to  make  a  big  ripple. 
The  eel  attaches  itself  to  the  stones  by  its  mouth, 
and  thus  moves  them  at  will.  An  old  fisherman  told 
me  that  a  strong  man  could  not  pull  a  large  lamprey 
loose  from  a  rock  to  which  it  had  attached  itself.  It 
fastens  to  its  prey  in  this  way,  and  sucks  the  life  out. 
A  friend  of  mine  says  he  once  saw  in  the  St.  Law- 
rence a  pike  as  long  as  his  arm  with  a  lamprey  eel 
attached  to  him.  The  fish  was  nearly  dead  and  was 
quite  white,  the  eel  had  so  sucked  out  his  blood  and 
substance.  The  fish,  when  seized,  darts  against  rocks 
and  stones,  and  tries  in  vain  to  rub  the  eel  off,  then 
succumbs  to  the  sucker. 

"  The  lampers  do  not  all  die,"  said  Denny,  "  be- 
cause they  do  not  all  spawn  ; "  and  I  observed  that 
ihe  dead  ones  were  all  of  one  size  and  doubtless  of 
the  same  age. 

The  lamprey  is  the  octopus,  the  devil-fish  of  these 
waters,  and  there  is,  perhaps,  no  tragedy  enacted 
here  that  equals  that  of  one  of  these  vampires  slowly 
sucking  the  life  out  of  a  bass  or  a  trout. 

My  boys  went  to  school  part  of  the  time.  Did  they 
have  a  good  teacher  ? 

"  Good  enough  for  me,"  said  Johnny. 

"  Good  enough  for  me,"  echoed  Denny. 

Just  below  Bark-a-boom  —  the  name  is  worth  keep 
ing  —  they  left  me.  I  was  loath  to  part  with  them 


PEPACTON:  A  SUMMER  VOYAGE.      21 

their  musical  voices  and  their  thorough  good-fellow- 
ship had  been  very  acceptable.  With  a  little  persua- 
sion, I  think  they  would  have  left  their  home  and 
humble  fortunes,  and  gone  a-roving  with  me. 

About  four  o'clock  the  warm,  vapor-laden  south- 
west wind  brought  forth  the  expected  thunder-shower. 
I  saw  the  storm  rapidly  developing  behind  the  mount- 
ains in  my  front.  Presently  I  came  in  sight  of  a 
long,  covered  wooden  bridge  that  spanned  the  river 
about  a  mile  ahead,  and  I  put  my  paddle  into  the 
water  with  all  my  force  to  reach  this  cover  before  the 
storm.  It  was  neck  and  neck  most  of  the  way.  The 
storm  had  the  wind,  and  I  had  it  —  in  my  teeth. 
The  bridge  wa~s  at  Shavertown,  and  it  was  by  a  close 
shave  that  I  got  under  it  before  the  rain  was  upon 
me.  How  it  poured  and  rattled  and  whipped  in  around 
the  abutment  of  the  bridge  to  reach  me !  I  looked 
out  well  satisfied  upon  the  foaming  water,  upon  the 
wet,  unpainted  houses  and  barns  of  the  Shavertown- 
ers,  and  upon  the  trees, 

"  Caught  and  cuffed  by  the  gale." 

A  little  hawk  —  the  spotted-winged  night-hawk  — 
was  also  roughly  used  by  the  storm.  He  faced  it 
bravely,  and  beat  and  beat,  but  was  unable  to  stem  it, 
or  even  hold  his  own ;  gradually  he  drifted  back,  till 
he  was  lost  to  sight  in  the  wet  obscurity.  The  water 
in  the  river  rose  an  inch  while  I  waited,  about  three 
quarters  of  an  hour.  Only  one  man,  I  reckon,  saw 
jne  in  Shavertown,  and  he  came  and  gossiped  with 
>»e  from  the  bank  above  when  the  storm  had  abated. 


22  PEPACTON:   A  SUMMER  VOYAGE. 

The  second  night  I  stopped  at  the  sign  of  the  elm- 
tree.  The  woods  were  too  wet,  and  I  concluded  to 
make  my  boat  my  bed.  A  superb  elm,  on  a  smooth 
grassy  plain  a  few  feet  from  the  water's  edge,  looked 
hospitable  in  the  twilight,  and  I  drew  my  boat  up  be- 
neath it.  I  hung  my  clothes  on  the  jagged  edges  of 
its  rough  bark,  and  went  to  bed  with  the  moon,  "  in 
her  third  quarter,"  peeping  under  the  branches  upon 
me.  I  had  been  reading  Stevenson's  amusing  "  Trav- 
els with  a  Donkey,"  and  the  lines  he  quotes  from  an 
old  play  kept  running  in  my  head  :  — 

"  The  bed  was  made,  the  room  was  fit, 
By  punctual  eve  the  stars  were  lit ; 
The  air  was  sweet,  the  water  ran ; 
No  need  was  there  for  maid  or  xan, 
When  we  put  up,  my  ass  and  I, 
At  God's  green  caravanserai." 

But  the  stately  elm  played  me  a  trick :  it  slyly  and 
at  long  intervals  let  great  drops  of  water  down  upon 
me  ;  now  with  a  sharp  smack  upon  my  rubber  coat ; 
then  with  a  heavy  thud  upon  the  seat  in  the  bow  or 
dtern  of  my  boat ;  then  plump  into  my  upturned  ear, 
or  upon  my  uncovered  arm,  or  with  a  ring  into  my 
tin  cup,  or  with  a  splash  into  my  coffee  pail  that  stood 
at  my  side  full  of  water  from  a  spring  I  had  just 
passed.  After  two  hours'  trial  I  found  dropping  off 
to  sleep,  under  such  circumstances,  was  out  of  the 
question ;  so  I  sprang  up,  in  no  very  amiable  mood 
toward  my  host,  and  drew  my  boat  clean  from  under 
the  elm.  I  had  refreshing  slumber  thenceforth,  and 
the  birds  were  astir  in  the  morning  long  before  J 
was. 


PEP  ACTON:    A  SUMMER  VOYAGE.  23 

There  is  one  way,  at  least,  in  which  the  denuding 
the  country  of  its  forests  has  lessened  the  rain-fall :  in 
certain  conditions  of  the  atmosphere  every  tree  is  a 
great  condenser  of  moisture,  as  I  had  just  observed  in 
the  case  of  the  old  elm ;  little  showers  are  generated 
in  their  branches,  and  in  the  aggregate  the  amount  of 
water  precipitated  in  this  way  is  considerable.  Of  a 
foggy  summer  morning  one  may  see  little  puddles  of 
water  standing  on  the  stones  beneath  maple-trees, 
along  the  street,  and  in  winter,  when  there  is  a  sud- 
den change  from  cold  to  warm,  with  fog,  the  water 
fairly  runs  down  the  trunks  of  the  trees  and  streams 
from  their  naked  branches.  The  temperature  of  the 
tree  is  so  much  below  that  of  the  atmosphere  in  such 
cases  that  the  condensation  is  very  rapid.  In  lieu  of 
these  arboreal  rains  we  have  the  dew  upon  the  grass  ; 
but  it  is  doubtful  if  the  grass  ever  drips  as  does  a 
tree. 

The  birds,  I  say,  were  astir  in  the  morning  before 
I  was,  and  some  of  them  were  more  wakeful  through 
the  night,  unless  they  sing  in  their  dreams.  At  this 
season  one  may  hear  at  intervals  numerous  bird  voices 
during  the  night.  The  wLip-poor-will  was  piping 
when  I  lay  down,  and  I  still  heard  one  when  I  woke 
up  after  midnight.  I  heard  the  song-sparrow  and  the 
kingbird  also,  like  watchers  calling  the  hour,  and  sev- 
eral times  I  heard  the  cuckoo.  Indeed,  I  am  con- 
rinced  that  our  cuckoo  is  to  a  considerable  extent  a 
uight  bird,  and  that  he  moves  about  freely  from  tree 
to  'ree.  His  peculiar  gutturai  note,  now  here,  now 


24      PEPACTON  :  A  SUMMER  VOYAGE. 

there,  may  be  heard  almost  any  summer  night,  in  any 
part  of  the  country,  and  occasionally  his  better  known 
cuckoo  call.  He  is  a  great  Yecluse  by  day,  but  seems 
to  wander  abroad  freely  by  night. 

The  birds  do  indeed  begin  with  the  day.  The  far- 
mer who  is  in  the  field  at  work  while  he  can  yet  see 
stars  catches  their  first  matin  hymns.  In  the  longest 
June  days  the  robin  strikes  up  about  half-past  three 
o'clock,  and  is  quickly  followed  by  the  sparrow,  the 
oriole,  the  cat-bird,  the  wren,  the  wood-thrush,  and  all 
the  rest  of  the  tuneful  choir.  Along  the  Potomac  I 
have  heard  the  Virginia  cardinal  whistle  so  loudly  and 
persistently  in  the  tree-tops  above  that  sleeping  after 
four  o'clock  was  out  of  the  question.  Just  before  the 
sun  is  up  there  is  a  marked  lull,  during  which  I  im- 
agine the  birds  are  at  breakfast.  While  building 
their  nest  it  is  very  early  in  the  morning  that  they 
put  in  their  big  strokes ;  the  back  of  their  day's  work 
is  broken  before  you  have  begun  yours. 

A  lady  once  asked  me  if  there  was  any  individual 
*ty  among  the  birds,  or  if  those  of  the  same  kind  were 
as  near  alike  as  two  peas.  I  was  obliged  to  answer 
that  to  the  eye  those  of  the  same  species  were  as  near 
alike  as  two  peas,  but  that  in  their  songs  there  were 
often  marks  of  originality.  Caged  or  domesticated 
birds  develop  notes  and  traits  of  their  own,  and  among 
the  more  familiar  orchard  and  garden  birds  one  may 
notice  the  same  tendency.  I  observe  a  great  variety 
of  songs,  and  even  qualities  of  voice,  among  the  ori 
oles  and  among  the  song-sparrows.  On  this  trip  my 


PEPAulON:    A   SUMMER  VOYAGE.  25 

ear  was  especially  attracted  to  some  striking  and  orig- 
inal sparrow  songs.  At  one  point  I  was  half  afraid 
I  had  let  pass  an  opportunity  to  identify  a  new  war- 
bler, but  finally  concluded  it  was  a  song-sparrow. 
On  another  occasion  I  used  to  hear  day  after  day  a 
sparrow  that  appeared  to  have  some  organic  defect 
in  its  voice :  part  of  its  song  was  scarcely  above  a 
whisper,  as  if  the  bird  was  suffering  from  a  very  bad 
cold.  I  have  heard  a  bobolink  and  a  hermit  thrush 
with  similar  defects  of  voice.  I  have  heard  a  robin 
with  a  part  of  the  whistle  of  the  quail  in  his  song. 
It  was  out  of  time  and  out  of  tune,  but  the  robin 
seemed  insensible  of  the  incongruity,  and  sang  as 
loudly  and  as  joyously  as  any  of  his  mates.  A  cat- 
bird will  sometimes  show  a  special  genius  for  mim- 
icry, and  I  have  known  one  to  suggest  very  plainly 
some  notes  of  the  bobolink. 

There  are  numerous  long  covered  bridges  spanning 
the  Delaware,  and  under  some  of  these  I  saw  the 
cliff-swallow  at  home,  the  nests  being  fastened  to  the 
under  sides  of  the  timbers,  —  as  it  were,  suspended 
from  the  ceiling  instead  of  being  planted  upon  the 
shelving  or  perpendicular  side,  as  is  usual  with  them. 
To  have  laid  the  foundation,  indeed,  to  have  sprung 
the  vault  downward  and  finished  it  successfully,  must 
have  acquired  special  engineering  skill.  I  had  never 
before  seen  or  heard  of  these  nests  being  so  placed. 
But  birds  are  quick  to  adjust  their  needs  to  the  exi- 
gencies of  any  case.  Not  long  before  I  had  seen  in 
t  deserted  house,  on  the  head  of  the  Roudout,  the 


26      PEP  ACTON  :  A  SUMMER  VOYAGE. 

chimney-swallows  entering  the  chamber  through  a 
stove-pipe  hole  in  the  roof,  and  gluing  their  nests  to 
the  sides  of  the  rafters,  like  the  barn-swallows. 

I  was  now,  on  the  third  day,  well  down  in  the 
wilds  of  Colchester,  with  a  current  that  made  between 
two  and  three  miles  an  hour,  — just  a  summer  idler's 
pace.  The  atmosphere  of  the  river  had  improved 
much  since  the  first  day  —  was,  indeed,  without 
taint,  —  and  the  water  was  sweet  and  good.  There 
were  farm-houses  at  intervals  of  a  mile  or  so  ;  but 
the  amount  of  tillable  land  in  the  river  valley  or  on 
the  adjacent  mountains  was  very  small.  Occasionally 
there  would  be  forty  or  fifty  acres  of  flat,  usually  in 
grass  or  corn,  with  a  thrifty -looking  farm-house.  One 
could  see  how  surely  the  land  made  the  house  and  its 
surroundings  ;  good  land  bearing  good  buildings,  and 
poor  land  poor. 

In  mid-forenoon  I  reached  the-  long  placid  eddy  at 
Downsville,  and  here  again  fell  in  with  two  boys. 
They  were  out  paddling  about  in  a  boat  when  I  drew 
near,  and  they  evidently  regarded  me  in  the  light  of 
a  rare  prize  which  fortune  had  wafted  them. 

"  Ain't  you  glad  we  come,  Benny  ? "  I  heard  one 
of  them  observe  to  the  .other,  as  they  were  conduct- 
ing me  to  the  best  place  to  land.  They  were  bright, 
good  boys,  off  the  same  piece  as  my  acquaintance  of 
the  day  before,  and  about  the  same  ages,  —  differing 
only  in  being  village  boys.  With  what  curiosity 
dhey  looked  me  over!  Where  had  I  come  from 
where  was  I  going ;  how  long  had  I  been  on  th« 


PEPACTON:  A  SUMMER  VOYAGE.  27 

way ;  who  built  my  boat ;  was  I  a  carpenter,  to 
build  such  a  neat  craft,  etc.  They  never  had  seen 
such  a  traveler  before.  Had  I  had  no  mishaps  ?  And 
then  they  bethought  them  of  the  dangerous  passes 
that  awaited  me,  and  in  good  faith  began  to  warn 
and  advise  me.  They  had  heard  the  tales  of  rafts- 
men, and  had  conceived  a  vivid  idea  of  the  perils  of 
the  river  below,  gauging  their  notions  of  it  from  the 
spring  and  fall  freshets  tossing  about  the  heavy  and 
cumbrous  rafts.  There  was  a  whirlpool,  a  rock  eddy, 
and  a  binocle  within  a  mile.  I  might  be  caught  in 
the  biuocle,  or  engulfed  in  the  whirlpool,  or  smashed 
up  in  the  eddy.  But  I  felt  much  reassured  when 
they  told  me  I  had  already  passed  several  whirlpools 
and  rock  eddies ;  but  that  terrible  binocle,  —  what 
was  that?  I  had  never  heard  of  such  a  monster. 
Oh,  it  was  a  still,  miry  place  at  the  head  of  a  big 
eddy.  The  current  might  carry  me  up  there,  but  I 
could  easily  get  out  again  ;  the  rafts  did.  But  there 
was  another  place  I  must  beware  of,  where  two  ed- 
dies faced  each  other;  raftsmen  were  sometimes 
swept  off  there  by  the  oars,  and  drowned.  And 
when  I  came  to  rock  eddy,  which  I  would  know,  be- 
^ause  the  river  divided  there  (a  part  of  the  water  be- 
ing afraid  to  risk  the  eddy,  I  suppose),  I  must  go 
ashore  and  survey  the  pass ;  but  in  any  case  it  would 
\>e  prudent  to  keep  to  the  left.  I  might  stick  on  the 
rift,  but  that  was  nothing  to  being  wrecked  upon 
those  rocks.  The  boys  were  quite  in  earnest,  and  I 
them  I  would  walk  up  to  the  village  and  post 


28  PEPACTON  :    A   SUMMER  VOYAGE. 

some  letters  to  my  friends  before  I  braved  all  these 
dangers.  So  they  marched  me  up  the  street,  pointing 
out  to  their  chums  what  they  had  found. 

"  Going  way  to  Phil  —  What  place  is  that  near 
where  the  river  goes  into  the  sea  ?  " 

"Philadelphia?" 

"  Yes ;  thinks  he  may  go  way  there.  Won't  he 
have  fun  ?  " 

The  boys  escorted  me  about  the  town,  then  back 
to  the  river,  and  got  in  their  boat  and  came  down  to 
the  bend,  where  they  could  see  me  go  through  the 
whirlpool  and  pass  the  binocle  (I  am  not  sure  about 
the  orthography  of  the  word,  but  I  suppose  it  means 
a  double,  or  a  sort  of  mock  eddy).  I  looked  back  as 
I  shot  over  the  rough  current  beside  a  gentle  vortex, 
and  saw  them  watching  me  with  great  interest.  Rock 
eddy,  also,  was  quite  harmless,  and  I  passed  it  with- 
out any  preliminary  survey. 

I  nooned  at  Sodom,  and  found  good  milk  in  a 
humble  cottage.  In  the  afternoon  I  was  amused  by 
a  great  blue  heron  that  kept  flying  up  in  advance  of 
me.  Every  mile  or  so,  as  I  rounded  some  point,  I 
would  come  unexpectedly  upon  him,  till  finally  ho 
grew  disgusted  with  my  silent  pursuit,  and  took. a 
ong  turn  to  the  left  up  along  the  side  of  the  mount- 
tdn,  and  passed  back  up  the  river,  uttering  a  hoarse, 
low  note. 

The  wind  still  boded  rain,  and  about  four  o'clock, 
announced  by  deep-toned  thunder  and  portentous 
clouds,  it  began  to  charge  down  the  mountain  side  U 


PEPACTON:  A  SUMMER  VOYAGE.      29 

front  of  me.  I  ran  ashore,  covered  my  traps,  and 
took  my  way  up  through  an  orchard  to  a  quaint  little 
farm-bouse.  But  there  was  not  a  soul  about,  outside 
or  in,  that  I  could  find,  though  the  door  was  unfast- 
ened ;  so  I  went  into  an  open  shed  with  the  hens, 
and  lounged  upon  some  straw,  while  the  unloosed 
floods  came  down.  It  was  better  than  boating  or 
fishing.  Indeed,  there  are  few  summer  pleasures  to 
be  placed  before  that  of  reclining  at  ease  directly  un- 
der a  sloping  roof,  after  toil  or  travel  in  the  hot  sun, 
and  looking  out  into  the  rain-drenched  air  and  fields. 
It  is  such  a  vital,  yet  soothing  spectacle.  We  sym- 
pathize with  the  earth.  We  know  how  good  a  bath 
is,  and  the  unspeakable  deliciousness  of  water  to  a 
parched  tongue.  The  office  of  the  sunshine  is  slow, 
subtle,  occult,  unsuspected ;  but  when  the  clouds  do 
their  work  the  benefaction  is  so  palpable  and  copious, 
so  direct  and  wholesale,  that  all  creatures  take  note 
of  it,  and  for  the  most  part  rejoice  in  it.  It  is  a  com- 
pletion, a  consummation,  a  paying  of  a  debt  with  a 
royal  hand ;  the  measure  is  heaped  and  overflowing. 
It  was  the  simple  vapor  of  water  that  the  clouds  bor- 
rowed of  the  earth ;  now  they  pay  back  more  than 
water;  the  drops  are  charged  with  electricity  and 
with  the  gases  of  the  air,  and  have  new  solvent  pow- 
ers. Then,  how  the  slate  is  sponged  off,  and  left  all 
•Jean  and  new  again  ! 

In  the  shed  where  I  was  sheltered  were  many 
relics  and  odds  and  ends  of  the  farm.  In  juxtaposi- 
tion with  two  of  the  most  stalwart  wagon  or  truck 


30  PEP  ACTON:   A  SUMMER  VOYAGE. 

wheels  I  ever  looked  upon  was  a  cradle  of  ancient 
and  peculiar  make,  an  aristocratic  cradle,  with  high- 
turned  posts  and  an  elaborately  carved  and  molded 
body,  that  was  suspended  upon  rods  and  swung  from 
the  top.  How  I  should  have  liked  to  hear  its  history 
and  the  story  of  the  lives  it  had  rocked,  as  the  rain 
sang  and  the  boughs  tossed  without.  Above  it  was 
the  cradle  of  a  phoebe-bird  saddled  upon  a  stick  that 
ran  behind  the  rafter ;  its  occupants  had  not  flown, 
and  its  story  was  easy  to  read. 

Soon  after  the  first  shock  of  the  storm  was  over, 
and  before  I  could  see  breaking  sky,  the  birds  tuned 
up  with  new  ardor,  —  the  robin,  the  indigo  bird,  the 
purple  finch,  the  sparroV,  and  in  the  meadow  below 
the  bobolink.  The  cockerel  near  me  followed  suit, 
and  repeated  his  refrain  till  my  meditations  were  so 
disturbed  that  I  was  compelled  to  eject  him  from  the 
cover,  albeit  he  had  the  best  right  there.  But  he 
crowed  his  defiance  with  drooping  tail  from  the  yard 
in  front.  I,  too,  had  mentally  crowed  over  the  good 
fortune  of  the  shower,  but  before  I  closed  my  eyes 
that  night  my  crest  was  a  good  deal  fallen,  and  I 
could  have  wished  the  friendly  elements  had  not 
squared  their  accounts  .quite  so  readily  and  uproari- 
ously. 

The  one  shower  did  not  exhaust  the  supply  a  bit ; 
Nature's  hand  was  full  of  trumps  yet,  —  yea,  and  her 
sleeve  too.  I  stopped  at  a  trout-brook,  which  came 
down  out  of  the  mountains  on  the  right,  and  took  a 
few  trout  for  my  supper ;  but  its  current  was  too 


PEPACTON:   A   SUMMER   VOYAGE.  31 

roily  from  the  shower  for  fly-fishing.  Another  farm- 
house attracted  me,  but  there  was  no  one  at  home ; 
BO  I  picked  a  quart  of  strawberries  in  the  meadow 
in  front,  not  minding  the  wet  grass,  and  about 
six  o'clock,  thinking  another  storm  that  had  been 
threatening  on  my  right  had  miscarried,  I  pushed  off, 
and  went  floating  down  into  the  deepening  gloom  of 
the  river  valley.  The  mountains,  densely  wooded 
from  base  to  summit,  shut  in  the  view  on  every 
hand.  They  cut  in  from  the  right  and  from  the  left, 
one  ahead  of  the  other,  matching  like  the  teeth  of 
an  enormous  trap;  the  river  was  caught  and  bent, 
but  not  long  detained  by  them.  Presently  I  saw  the 
rain  creeping  slowly  over  them  in  my  rear,  for  the 
wind  had  changed ;  but  I  apprehended  nothing  but 
a  moderate  sundown  drizzle,  such  as  we  often  get 
from  the  tail  end  of  a  shower,  and  drew  up  in  the 
eddy  of  a  big  rock  under  an  overhanging  tree  till  it 
should  have  passed.  But  it  did  not  pass ;  it  thick- 
ened and  deepened,  and  reached  a  steady  pour  by  the 
time  I  had  calculated  the  sun  would  be  gilding  the 
mountain  tops.  I  had  wrapped  my  rubber  coat 
about  my  blankets  and  groceries,  and  bared  my  back 
to  the  storm.  In  sullen  silence  I  saw  the  night  set- 
tling down  and  the  rain  increasing ;  my  roof  tree 
gave  way,  and  every  leaf  poured  its  accumulated 
£rops  upon  me.  There  were  streams  and  splashes 
where  before  there  had  been  little  more  than  a  mist. 
I  was  getting  well  soaked  and  uncomplimentary  in 
Say  remarks  on  the  weather.  A  saucy  cat-bird,  near 


32    PEPACTON:  A  SUMMER  VOYAGE. 

by,  flirted  and  squealed  very  plainly,  "  There !  there  ! 
What  did  I  tell  you  I  what  did  I  tell  you !  Pretty 
pickle  !  pretty  pickle !  pretty  piokle  to  be  in  !  "  But 
I  had  been  in  worse  pickles,  though  if  the  water  had 
been  salt  my  pickling  had  been  pretty  thorough. 
Seeing  the  wind  was  in  the  northeast,  and  that  the 
weather  had  fairly  stolen  a  march  on  me,  I  let  go  my 
hold  of  the  tree,  and  paddled  rapidly  to  the  opposite 
shore,  which  was  low  and  pebbly,  drew  my  boat  up 
on  a  little  peninsula,  turned  her  over  upon  a  spot 
which  I  cleared  of  its  coarser  stone,  propped  up  one 
end  with  the  seat,  and  crept  beneath.  I  would  now 
test  the  virtues  of  my  craft  as  a  roof,  and  I  found  she 
was  without  flaw,  though  she  was  pretty  narrow. 
The  tension  of  her  timber  was  such  that  the  rain 
upon  her  bottom  made  a  low,  musical  hum. 

Crouched  on  my  blankets  and  boughs,  —  for  I  had 
gathered  a  good  supply  of  the  latter  before  the  rain 
overtook  me,  —  and  dry  only  about  my  middle,  I 
placidly  took  life  as  it  came.  A  great  blue  heron 
flew  by,  and  let  off  something  like  ironical  horse 
laughter.  Before  it  became  dark  I  proceeded  to  eat 
my  supper,  —  my  berries,  but  ,not  my  trout.  "What 
t  fuss  we  make  about -the  "hulls"  upon  strawber- 
ries !  We  are  hypercritical ;  we  may  yet  be  glad  to 
dine  off  the  hulls  alone.  Some  people  see  something 
to  pick  and  carp  at  in  every  good  that  comes  to 
them ;  I  was  thankful  that  I  had  the  berries,  and  res 
olutely  ignored  their  little  scalloped  ruffles,  which  1 
found  pleased  the  eye  and  did  not  disturb  the  palate, 


PEPACTON:  A  SUMMER  VOYAGE.      33 

When  bed-time  arrived  I  found  undressing  a  little 
awkward,  my  berth  was  so  low ;  there  was  plenty  of 
room  in  the  aisle,  and  the  other  passengers  were 
nowhere  to  be  seen,  but  I  did  not  venture  out.  It 
rained  nearly  all  night,  but  the  train  made  good 
speed,  and  reached  the  land  of  daybreak  nearly  on 
time.  The  water  in  the  river  had  crept  up  during 
the  night  to  within  a  few  inches  of  my  boat,  but  I 
rolled  over  and  took  another  nap,  all  the  same.  Then 
I  arose,  had  a  delicious  bath  in  the  sweet,  swift-run- 
ning current,  and  turned  my  thoughts  toward  break- 
fast. The  making  of  the  coffee  was  the  only  serious 
problem.  With  everything  soaked  and  a  fine  rain 
still  falling,  how  shall  one  build  a  fire  ?  I  made  my 
way  to  a  little  island  above  in  quest  of  drift-wood. 
Before  I  had  found  the  wood  I  chanced  upon  an- 
other patch  of  delicious  wild  strawberries,  and  took 
an  appetizer  of  them  out  of  hand.  Presently  I  picked 
up  a  yellow  birch  stick  the  size  of  my  arm.  The 
wood  was  decayed,  but  the  bark  was  perfect,  I 
broke  it  in-  two,  punched  out  the  rotten  wood,  and 
had  the  bark  intact.  The  fatty  or  resinous  substance 
in  this  bark  preserves  it,  and  makes  it  excellent  kind- 
ling. With  some  seasoned  twigs  and  a  scrap  of  paper 
I  soon  had  a  fire  going  that  answered  my  every  pur- 
pose. More  berries  were  picked  while  the  coffee  was 
brewing,  and  the  breakfast  was  a  success. 

The  camper-out  often  finds  nimself  in  what  seems 
a  distressing  predicament  to  people  seated  in  their 
snug,  well-ordered  houses ;  but  there  is  often  a  real 
3 


34  PEPACTON  :  A   SUMMER   VOYAGE. 

satisfaction  when  things  come  to  their  worst,  —  a 
satisfaction  in  seeing  what  a  small  matter  it  is,  after 
all ;  that  one  is  really  neither  sugar  nor  salt,  to  be 
afraid  of  the  wet;  and  that  life  is  just  as  well  worth 
living  beneath  a  scow  or  a  dug-out  as  beneath  the 
highest  and  broadest  roof  in  Christendom. 

By  ten  o'clock  it  became  necessary  to  move,  on 
account  of  the  rise  of  the  water,  and  as  the  rain  had 
abated  I  picked  up  and  continued  my  journey.  Be- 
fore long,  however,  the  rain  increased  again,  and  I 
took  refuge  in  a  barn.  The  snug,  tree-embowered 
farm-house  looked  very  inviting,  just  across  the  road 
from  the  barn;  but  as  no  one  was  about,  and  no 
faces  appeared  at  the  window  that  I  might  judge  of 
the  inmates,  I  contented  myself  with  the  hospitality 
the  barn  offered,  filling  my  pockets  with  some  dry 
birch  shavings  I  found  there  where  the  farmer  had 
made  an  ox  yoke,  against  the  needs  of  the  next  kind- 
ling. 

After  an  hour's  detention  I  was  off  again.  I 
stopped  at  Baxter's  Brook,  which  flows  hard  by  the 
classic  hamlet  of  Harvard,  and  tried  for  trout,  but 
with  poor  success,  as  I  did  not  think  it  worth  while 
to  go  far  up  stream. 

At  several  points  I  saw  rafts  of  hemlock  lumber 
tied  to  the  shore,  ready  to  take  advantage  of  the  first 
freshet.  Rafting  is  an  important  industry  for  a  hun- 
dred miles  or  more  along  the  Delaware.  The  lum- 
bermen sometimes  take  their  families  or  friends,  and 
have  a  jollification  all  the  way  to  Trenton  or  to  Phil 


PEPACTON:  A  SUMMER 


adelphia.  In  some  places  the  speed  is.  very  great, 
almost  equaling  that  of  an  express  train.  The  pas- 
sage of  such  places  as  Cochecton  Falls  and  "  Foul 
Rift"  is  attended  with  no  little  danger.  The  raft 
is  guided  by  two  immense  oars,  one  before  and  one 
behind.  I  frequently  saw  these  huge  implements  in 
the  drift-wood  along  shore,  suggesting  some  colossal 
race  of  men.  The  raftsmen  have  names  of  their 
own.  From  the  upper  Delaware,  where  I  had  set 
in,  small  rafts  are  run  down  which  they  call  "  colts." 
They  come  frisking  down  at  a  lively  pace.  At  Han- 
cock they  usually  couple  two  rafts  together,  when  I 
suppose  they  have  a  span  of  colts  ;  or  do  two  colta 
make  one  horse  ?  Some  parts  of  the  framework  of 
the  raft  they  call  "grubs;"  much  depends  upon 
these  grubs.  The  lumbermen  were  and  are  a  hardy, 
virile  race.  The  Hon.  Charles  Knapp,  of  Deposit, 
now  eighty-three  years  of  age,  but  with  the  look  and 
step  of  a  man  of  sixty,  told  me  he  had  stood  nearly 
all  one  December  day  in  the  water  to  his  waist,  re- 
constructing his  raft,  which  had  gone  to  pieces  on 
the  head  of  an  island.  Mr.  Knapp  had  passed  the 
first  half  oij  his  life  in  Colchester  and  Hancock,  and, 
although  no  sportsman,  had  once  taken  part  in  a 
great  bear  hunt  there.  The  bear  was  an  enormous 
one,  and  was  hard  pressed  by  a  gang  of  men  and 
dogs.  Their  muskets  and  assaults  upon  the  beast 
with  clubs  had  made  no  impression.  Mr.  Knapp 
saw  where  the  bear  was  combg,  and  he  thought  he 
would  show  them  how  easy  it  was  to  dispatch  a  bear 


36  PEPACTON  :  A  SUMMER   VOYAGE. 

with  a  club,  if  you  only  knew  where  to  strike.  He 
had  seen  how  quickly  the  largest  hog  would  wilt  be- 
neath a  slight  blow  across  the  "  small  of  the  back." 
So,  armed  with  an  immense  handspike,  he  took  up  a 
position  by  a  large  rock  that  the  bear  must  pass. 
On  she  came,  panting  and  nearly  exhausted,  and  at 
the  right  moment  down  came  the  club  with  great 
force  upon  the  small  of  her  back.  "  If  a  fly  had 
alighted  upon  her,"  said  Mr.  Knapp,  "I  think  she 
Would  have  paid  just  as  much  attention  to  it  as  she 
did  to  me." 

Early  in  the  afternoon  I  encountered  another  boy, 
Henry  Ingersoll,  who  was  so  surprised  by  my  sudden 
and  unwonted  appearance  that  he  did  not  know  east 
from  west.  "  Which  way  is  west  ? "  I  inquired,  to 
see  if  my  own  head  was  straight  on  the  subject. 

"  That  way,"  he  said,  indicating  east  within  a  few 
degrees. 

"You  are  wrong,"  I  replied.  "Where  does  the 
sun  rise  ?  " 

"  There,"  he  said,  pointing  almost  in  the  direction 
he  had  pointed  before. 

"  But  does  not  the  sun  rise  in  the  east  here  as  well 
as  elsewhere  ?  "  I  rejoined. 

"  Well,  they  call  that  west,  anyhow." 

But  Henry's  needle  was  subjected  to  a  disturbing 
influence  just.  then.     His  house  was  near  the  river, 
and  he  was  its  sole  guardian  and  keeper  for  the  time 
his  father  had  gone  up  to  the  next  neighbor's  (it  waf 
Sunday),  and  his  sister  had  gone  with  the  school 


PEPACTON:   A   SUMMER    VOYAGE.  37 

mistress  down  the  road  to  get  black  birch.  He  came 
out  in  the  road,  with  wide  eyes,  to  view  me  as  I 
passed,  when  I  drew  rein,  and  demanded  the  points 
of  the  compass,  as  above.  Then  I  shook  my  sooty 
pail  at  him  and  asked  for  milk.  Yes,  I  could  have 
some  milk,  but  I  would  have  to  wait  till  his  sister 
came  back ;  after  he  had  recovered  a  little,  he  con- 
cluded he  could  get  it.  He  came  for  my  pail,  and 
then  his  boyish  curiosity  appeared.  My  story  inter- 
ested him  immensely.  He  had  seen  twelve  summers, 
but  he  had  only  been  four  miles  from  home  up 
and  down  the  river :  he  had  been  down  to  the  East 
Branch,  and  he  had  been  up  to  Trout  Brook.  He 
took  a  pecuniary  interest  in  me.  What  did  my  pole 
cost  ?  What  my  rubber  coat,  and  what  my  revolver  ? 
The  latter  he  must  take  in  his  hand ;  he  had  never 
seen  such  a  thing  to  shoot  with  before  in  his  life,  etc. 
He  thought  I  might  make  the  trip  cheaper  and  easier 
by  stage  and  by  the  cars.  He  went  to  school :  there 
were  six  scholars  in  summer,  one  or  two  more  in 
winter.  The  population  is  not  crowded  in  the  town 
of  Hancock,  certainly,  and  never  will  be.  The  peo- 
ple live  close  to  the  bone,  as  Thoreau  would  say,  or 
rather  close  to  the  stump.  Many  years  ago  the  young 
men  there  resolved  upon  having  a  ball.  They  con- 
cluded not  to  go  to  a  hotel,  on  account  of  the  ex- 
pense, and  so  chose  a  private  house.  There  was  a 
man  in  the  neighborhood  who  could  play  the  fife ;  he 
iffered  to  furnish  the  music  for  seventy-five  cents. 
But  this  was  deemed  too  much,  so  one  of  the  party 


88          PEPACTON:  A  SUMMER  VOYAGE. 

agreed  to  whistle.  History  does  not  tell  how  many 
beaux  there  were  bent  upon  this  reckless  enterprise, 
but  there  were  three  girls.  For  refreshments  they 
bought  a  couple  of  gallons  of  whiskey  and  a  few 
pounds  of  sugar.  When  the  spree  was  over,  and  the 
expenses  were  reckoned  up,  there  was  a  shilling  — 
a  York  shilling — apiece  to  pay.  Some  of  the  rev- 
elers were  dissatisfied  with  this  charge,  and  intimated 
that  the  managers  had  not  counted  themselves  in,  but 
taxed  the  whole  expense  upon  the  rest  of  the  party. 

As  I  moved  on  I  saw  Henry's  sister  and  the  school- 
mistress picking  their  way  along  the  muddy  roa.fl 
near  the  river's  bank.  One  of  them  saw  me,  and, 
dropping  her  skirts,  said  to  the  other  (I  could  read 
the  motions),  "  See  that  man !  "  The  other  lowered 
her  flounces,  and  looked  up  and  down  the  road,  then 
glanced  over  into  the  field,  and  lastly  out  upon  the 
river.  They  paused  and  had  a  good  look  at  me, 
though  I  could  see  that  their  impulse  to  run  away, 
like  that  of  a  frightened  deer,  was  strong. 

At  the  East  Branch  the  Big  Beaver  Kill  joins  the 
Delaware,  almost  doubling  its  volume.  Here  I  struck 
the  railroad,  the  forlorn  Midland,  and  here  another 
set  of  men  and  manners  cropped  out,  —  what  may 
be  called  the  railroad  conglomerate  overlying  this 
mountain  freestone. 

"  Where  did  you  steal  that  boat  ?  "  and,  "  What 
you  running  away  for?"  greeted  me  from  a  hand* 
car  that  went  by. 

I  paused   for  some  time   and  watched   the   fish 


PEP  ACTON  :  A  SUMMER  VOYAGE.      39 

hawks,  or  ospreys,  of  which  there  were  nearly  a 
dozen  sailing  about  above  the  junction  of  the  two 
streams,  squealing  and  diving,  and  occasionally  strik- 
ing a  fish  on  the  rifts.  I  am  convinced  that  the  fisb 
hawk  sometimes  feeds  on  the  wing.  I  saw  him  dc 
it  on  this  and  on  another  occasion.  He  raises  him- 
self by  a  peculiar  motion,  and  brings  his  head  and 
his  talons  together,  and  apparently  takes  a  bite  of  a 
fish.  While  doing  this  his  flight  presents  a  sharply 
undulating  line ;  at  the  crest  of  each  rise  the  morsel 
is  taken. 

In  a  long,  deep  eddy  under  the  west  shore  I  came 
upon  a  brood  of  jviM  ducks,  the  hooded  merganser. 
The  youii;;  bout  half  grown,  but  of  course 

entirely  destitute  of  plumage.  They  started  off  at 
great  speed,  kicking  the  water  into  foam  behind 
them,  the  mother  duck  keeping  upon  their  flank  and 
rear.  Near  the  outlet  of  the  pool  I  saw  them  go 
ashore,  and  I  expected  they  would  conceal  them- 
selves in  the  woods;  but  as  I  drew  near  the  place 
they  came  out,  and  I  saw  by  their  motions  they  were 
going  to  make  a  rush  by  me  up  stream.  At  a  signal 
from  the  old  one,  on  they  came,  and  passed  within  a 
few  feet  of  me.  It  was  almost  incredible,  the  speed 
they  made.  Their  pink  feet  were  like  swiftly  revolv- 
Vig  wheels  placed  a  little  to  the  rear;  their  breasts 
just  skimmed  the  surface,  and  the  water  was  beaten 
into  spray  behind  them.  They  had  no  need  of  wings ; 
even  the  mother  bird  did  not  use  hers ;  a  steamboat 
could  hardly  have  kept  up  with  them.  I  dropped  my 


40      PEPACTON  I  A  SUMMER  VOYAGE. 

paddle,  and  cheered.  They  kept  the  race  up  for  a 
long  distance,  and  I  saw  them  making  a  fresh  spirt 
as  I  entered  upon  the  rift  and  dropped  quickly  out 
of  sight.  I  next  disturbed  an  eagle  in  his  medita- 
tions upon  a  dead  tree-top,  and  a  cat  sprang  out  of 
some  weeds  near  the  foot  of  the  tree.  Was  he  watch- 
ing for  puss,  while  she  was  watching  for  some  smaller 
prey? 

I  passed  Partridge  Island  —  which  is  or  used  to 
be  the  name  of  a  post-office  —  unwittingly,  and  en- 
camped for  the  night  on  an  island  near  Hawk's 
Point.  I  slept  in  my  boat  on  the  beach,  and  in  the 
morning  my  locks  were  literally  wet  with  the  dews 
of  the  night,  and  my  blankets  too ;  so  I  waited  for 
the  sun  t ;  dry  them.  As  I  was  gathering  drift-wood 
for  a  fire,  a  voice  came  over  from  the  shadows  of  the 
east  shore :  "  Seems  to  me  you  lay  abed  pretty  late !  " 

"  I  call  this  early,"  I  rejoined,  glancing  at  the  sun. 

"  Wall,  it  may  be  airly  in  the  forenoon,  but  it 
ain't  very  airly  in  the  mornin' ; "  a  distinction  I  was 
forced  to  admit.  Before  I  had  reembarked  some 
cows  came  down  to  the  shore,  and  I  watched  them 
ford  the  river  to  the  island.  .They  did  it  with  great 
ease  and  precision.  I -was  told  they  will  sometimes, 
during  high  water,  swim  over  to  the  islands,  striking 
In  well  up  stream,  and  swimming  diagonally  across. 
At  one  point  some  cattle  had  crossed  the  river,  and 
evidently  got  into  mischief,  for  a  large  dog  rushed 
them  down  the  bank  into  the  current,  and  worried 
them  all  the  way  over,  part  of  the  time  swimming 


PEPACTON:   A  SUMMER  VOYAGE.  41 

and  part  of  the  time  leaping  very  high,  as  a  dog 
will  in  deep  snow,  coming  down  with  a  great  splash. 
The  cattle  were  shrouded  with  spray  as  they  ran, 
and  altogether  it  was  a  novel  picture. 

My  voyage  ended  that  forenoon  at  Hancock,  and 
was  crowned  by  a  few  idyllic  days  with  some  friends 
in  their  cottage  in  the  woods  by  Lake  Oquaga,  a 
body  of  crystal  water  on  the  hills  near  Deposit,  and 
a  haven  as  peaceful  and  perfect  as  voyager  ever  came 
to  port  in. 


SPRINGS. 


SPRINGS. 

I  '11  show  thee  the  best  springs.  —TEMPEST. 

A  MAN  who  came  back  to  the  place  of  his  birth  in 
the  East,  after  an  absence  of  a  quarter  of  a  century 
in  the  West,  said  the  one  thing  he  most  desired  to 
see  about  the  old  homestead  was  the  spring.  This, 
at  least,  he  would  find  unchanged.  Here  his  lost 
youth  would  come  back  to  him.  The  faces  of  his 
father  and  mother  he  might  not  look  upon  ;  but  the 
face  of  the  spring  that  had  mirrored  theirs  and  his 
own  so  oft,  he  fondly  imagined  would  beam  on  him 
as  of  old.  I  can  well  believe  that  in  that  all  but 
springless  country  in  which  he  had  cast  his  lot,  the 
vision,  the  remembrance  of  the  fountain  that  flowed 
by  his  father's  doorway,  so  prodigal  of  its  precious 
gifts,  has  awakened  in  him  the  keenest  longings  and 
regrets. 

Did  he  not  remember  the  path,  also ;  for  next  to 
the  spring  itself  is  the  path  that  leads  to  it.  Indeed, 
of  all  foot-paths,  the  spring-path  is  the  most  suggest 
ve. 

This  is  a  path  with  something  at  the  end  of  it, 


4:6  SPRINGS 

and  the  best  of  good  fortune  awaits  mm  who  walks 
therein.  It  is  a  well-worn  path,  and,  though  gener- 
ally up  or  down  a  hill,  it  is  the  easiest  of  all  paths  to 
travel :  we  forget  our  fatigue  when  going  to  the 
spring,  and  we  have  lost  it  when  we  turn  to  come 
away.  See  with  what  alacrity  the  laborer  hastens 
along  it,  all  sweaty  from  the  fields ;  see  the  boy  or 
girl  running  with  pitcher  or  pail;  see  the  welcome 
shade  of  the  spreading  tree  that  presides  over  its 
marvelous  .birth ! 

In  the  woods  or  on  the  mountain-side  follow  the 
path,  and  you  are  pretty  sure  to  find  a  spring;  all 
creatures  are  going  that  way  night  and  day,  and  they 
make  a  path. 

A  spring  is  always  a  vital  point  in  the  landscape ; 
it  is  indeed  the  eye  of  the  fields,  and  how  often,  too, 
it  has  a  noble  eyebrow  in  the  shape  of  an  overhang- 
ing bank  or  ledge.  Or  else  its  site  is  marked  by 
some  tree  which  the  pioneer  has  wisely  left  standing, 
and  which  sheds  a  coolness  and  freshness  that  make 
the  water  more  sweet.  In  the  shade  of  this  tree  the 
harvesters  sit  and  eat  their  lunch  and  look  out  upon 
the  quivering  air  of  the  fields.  Here  the  Sunday 
saunterer  stops  and  lounges  with  his  book,  and 
bathes  his  hands  and  face  in  the  cool  fountain. 
Hither  the  strawberry-girl  comes  with  her  basket 
and  pauses  a  moment  in  the  green  shade.  The 
plowman  leaves  his  plow  and  in  long  strides  ap- 
proaches the  life-renewing  spot,  while  his  team,  that 
cannot  follow,  look  wistfully  after  him.  Here  thf 


SPRINGS.  47 

tattle  love  to  pass  the  heat  of .  the  day,  and  hither 
come  the  birds  to  wash  themselves  and  make  their 
toilets. 

Indeed,  a  spring  is  always  an  oasis  in  the  desert  of 
whe  fields.  It  is  a  creative  and  generative  centre.  It 
attracts  all  things  to  itself,  —  the  grasses,  the  mosses, 
the  flowers,  the  wild  plants,  the  great  trees.  The 
walker  finds  it  out,  the  camping  party  seek  it,  the 
pioneer  builds  his  hut  or  his  house  near  it.  When 
the  settler  or  squatter  has  found  a  good'  spring,  he 
has  found  a  good  place  to  begin  life ;  he  has  found 
the  fountain-head  of  much  that  he  is  seeking  in  this 
world.  The  chances  are  that  he  has  found  a  south- 
ern and  eastern  exposure  ;  for  it  is  a  fact  that  water 
does  not  readily  flow  north ;  the  valleys  mostly  open 
the  other  way  ;  and  it  is  quite  certain  he  has  found  a 
measure  of  salubrity ;  for  where  water  flows  fever 
abideth  not.  The  spring,  too,  keeps  him  to  the  right 
belt,  out  of  the  low  valley,  and  off  the  top  of  the  hill. 

When  John  Winthrop  decided  upon  the  site  where 
now  stands  the  city  of  Boston,  as  a  proper  place  for 
a  settlement,  he  was  chiefly  attracted  by  a  large  and 
excellent  spring  of  water  that  flowed  there.  The  in- 
fant city  was  born  of  this  fountain. 

There  seems  a  kind  of  perpetual  spring-time  about 
ihe  place  where  water  issues  from  the  ground  —  a 
freshness  and  a  greenness  that  are  ever  renewed.  The 
grass  never  fades,  the  ground  is  never  parched  or 
frozen.  There  is  warmth  there  in  winter  and  cool- 
ness in  summer.  The  temperature  is  equalized.  In 


48  SPRINGS. 

March  or  April  the  spring  runs  are  a  bright  emerald, 
while  the  surrounding  fields  are  yet  brown  and  sere, 
and  in  fall  they  are  yet  green  when  the  first  snow 
covers  them.  Thus  every  fountain  by  the  road-side 
is  a  fountain  of  youth  and  of  life.  This  is  what  the 
old  fables  finally  .mean. 

An  intermittent  spring  is  shallow  ;  it  has  no  deep 
root  and  is  like  an  inconstant  friend.  But  a  peren- 
nial spring,  one  whose  ways  are  appointed,  whose 
foundation  is  established,  what  a  profound  and  beau- 
tiful symbol!  In  fact,  there  is  no  more  large  and 
universal  symbol  in  nature  than  the  spring,  if  there 
is  any  other  capable  of  such  wide  and  various  appli- 
cations. 

What  preparation  seems  to  have  been  made  for  it 
in  the  conformation  of  the  ground,  even  in  the  deep 
underlying  geological  strata !  Vast  rocks  and  ledges 
are  piled  for  it,  or  cleft  asunder  that  it  may  find  a 
way.  Sometimes  it  is  a  trickling  thread  of  silver 
down  the  sides  of  a  seamed  and  scarred  precipice. 
Then  again  the  stratified  rock  is  like  a  just-lifted  lid, 
from  beneath  which  the  water  issues.  Or  it  slips 
noiselessly  out  of  a  deep  dimple  in  the  fields.  Occa- 
sionally it  bubbles  up  is  the  valley  as  if  forced  up  by 
the  surrounding  hills.  Many  springs,  no  doubt,  find 
an  outlet  in  the  beds  of  the  large  rivers  and  lakes,  and 
are  unknown  to  all  but  the  fishes.  They  probably 
find  them  out  and  make  much  of  them.  The  trout 
certainly  do.  Find  a  place  in  the  creek  where  a 
spring  issues,  or  where  it  flows  into  it  from  a  near 


SPRINGS.  49 

bank,  and  you  have  found  a  most  likely  place  for 
trout.  They  deposit  their  spawn  there  in  the  fall, 
warm  their  noses  there  in  winter,  and  cool  themselves 
there  in  summer.  I  have  seen  the  patriarchs  of  the 
tribe  of  an  old  and  much-fished  stream,  seven  or  eight 
enormous  fellows,  congregated  in  such  a  place.  The 
boys  found  it  out  and  went  with  a  bag  and  bagged 
them  all.  In  another  place  a  trio  of  large  trout,  that 
knew  and  despised  all  the  arts  of  the  fishermen,  took 
up  their  abode  in  a  deep,  dark  hole  in  the  edge  of 
the  wood,  that  had  a  spring  flowing  into  a  shallow 
part  of  it.  In  midsummer  they  were  wont  to  come 
out  from  their  safe  retreat  and  bask  in  the  spring, 
their  immense  bodies  but  a  few  inches  under  water. 
A  youth,  who  had  many  times  vainly  sounded  their 
dark  hiding-place  with  his  hook,  happening  to  come 
along  with  his  rifle  one  day,  shot  the  three,  one  after 
another,  killing  them  by  the  concussion  of  the  bullet 
on  the  water  immediately  over  them. 

The  ocean  itself  is  known  to  possess  springs,  copi- 
ous ones,  in  many  places  the  fresh  water  rising  up 
through  the  heavier  salt  as  through  a  rock,  and  afford- 
ing supplies  to  vessels  at  the  surface.  Off  the  coast 
of  Florida  many  of  these  submarine  springs  have 
been  discovered,  the  outlet,  probably,  of  the  streams 
and  rivers  that  disappear  in  the  "sinks"  of  that  State. 

It  is  a  pleasant  conception,  that  of  the  unscien- 
tific folk,  that  the  springs  are  fed  directly  by  the  sea, 
ar  that  the  earth  is  full  of  veins  or  arteries  that  con- 
nect with  the  great  reservoir  of  waters.  But  when 
4 


50  SPRINGS. 

science  turns  the  conception  over  and  makes  the  con- 
nection in  the  air  —  disclosing  the  great  water-main 
in  the  clouds,  and  that  the  mighty  engine  of  the  hy- 
draulic system  of  nature  is  the  sun,  the  fact  becomes 
even  more  poetical,  does  it  not  ?  This  is  one  of  the 
many  cases  where  science,  instead  of  curtailing  the 
imagination,  makes  new  and  large  demands  upon  it. 

The  hills  are  great  sponges  that  do  not  anoT  can- 
not hold  the  water  that  is  precipitated  upon  them, 
but  that  let  it  filter  through  at  the  bottom.  This  is 
the  way  the  sea  has  robbed  the  earth  of  its  various 
salts,  its  potash,  its  lime,  its  magnesia,  and  many  other 
mineral  elements.  It  is  found  that  the  oldest  up- 
heavals, those  sections  of  the  country  that  have  been 
longest  exposed  to  the"  leeching  and  washing  of  the 
rains,  are  poorest  in  those  substances  that  go  to  the 
making  of  the  osseous  frame-work  of  man  and  of  the 
animals.  Wheat  does  not  grow  well  there,  and  the 
men  born  and  reared  there  are  apt  to  have  brittle 
bones.  An  important  part  of  those  men  went  down 
stream,  ages  before  they  were  born.  The  water  of 
such  sections  is  now  soft  and  free  from  mineral  sub- 
stances, but  not  more  wholesome  on  that  account. 

The  gigantic  springs  of  the  country  that  have  not 
been  caught  in  any  of  the  great  natural  basins,  are 
mostly  confined  to  the  limestone  region  of  the  Mid- 
dle and  Southern  States,  —  the  valley  of  Virginia 
and  its  continuation  and  deflections  into  Kentucky, 
Tennessee,  Northern  Alabama,  Georgia,  and  Flor- 
vda.  Through  this  belt  are  found  the  great  caveg 


SPRINGS.  51 

and  the  subterranean  rivers.  The  waters  have  here 
worked  like  enormous  moles,  and  have  honey-combed 
the  foundations  of  the  earth.  They  have  great  high-- 
ways beneath  the  hills.  Water  charged  with  car- 
bonic acid  gas  has  a  very  sharp  tooth  and  a  power- 
ful digestion,  and  no  limestone  rock  can  long  resist. 
it.  Sherman's  soldiers  tell  of  a  monster  spring  ia 
Northern  Alabama,  —  a  river  leaping  full-grown 
from  the  bosom  of  the  earth ;  and  of  another  at  the< 
bottom  of  a  large,  deep  pit  in  the  rocks,  that  con- 
tinues its  way  under  ground. 

There  are  many  springs  in  Florida  of  this  char* 
acter,  large  under-ground  streams  that  have  breath- 
ing holes,  as  it  were,  here  and  there.  In  some  place* 
the  water  rises  and  fills  the  bottoms  of  deep  bowl- 
shaped  depressions  ;  in  other  localities  it  is  reached 
through  round  natural  well-holes ;  a  bucket  is  let 
down  by  a  rope,  and  if  it  becomes  detached  is  quickly 
swept  away  by  the  current.  Some  of  the  Florida 
springs  are  perhaps  the  largest  in  the  world,  afford- 
.mg  room  and  depth  enough  for  steamboats  to  move 
and  turn  in  them.  Green  Cove  Spring  is  said  to  be 
like  a  waterfall  reversed  ;  a  cataract  rushing  upward 
through  a  transparent  liquid  instead  of  leaping  down- 
ward through  the  air.  There  are  one  or  two  of  these 
enormous  springs  also  in  Northern  Mississippi,  — 
springs  so  large  that  it  seems  as  if  the  whole  conti- 
nent must  nurse  them. 

The  Valley  of  the  Shenandoah  is  remarkable  for 
;ts  large  springs.  The  town  of  Winchester,  a  town  of 


52  SPRINGS. 

several  thousand  inhabitants,  is  abundantly  supplied 
with  water  from  a  single  spring  that  issues  on  higher 
ground  near  by.  Several  other  springs  in  the  vi- 
cinity afford  rare  mill-power.  At  Harrisonburg,  a 
county  town  farther  up  the  valley,  I  was  attracted 
by  a  low  ornamental  dome  resting  upon  a  circle  of 
columns,  on  the  edge  of  the  square  that  contained  the 
court-house,  and  was  surprised  to  find  that  it  gave 
shelter  to  an  immense  spring.  This  spring  was  also 
capable  of  watering  the  town  or  several  towns  ;  stone 
steps  lead  down  to  it  at  the  bottom  of  a  large  stone 
basin.-  There  was  a  pretty  constant  string  of  pails 
to  and  from  it.  Aristotle  called  certain  springs  of 
his  country  "  cements  of  society,"  because  the  young 
people  so  frequently  met  there  and  sang  and  con- 
versed ;  and  I  have  little  doubt  this  spring  is  of  like 
social  importance. 

There  is  a  famous  spring  at  San  Antonio,  Texas, 
which  is  described  by  that  excellent  traveler,  Fred- 
erick Law  Olmsted.  "  The  whole  river,"  he  says, 
*  gushes  up  in  one  sparkling  burst  from  the  earth, 
with  all  the  accessories  of  smaller  springs,  moss,  peb- 
bles, foliage,  seclusion,  etc.  Its  effect  is  overpower- 
ing. It  is  beyond  your  possible  conception  of  a 
spring." 

Of  like  copiousness  and  splendor  is  the  Caledonia 
spring,  or  springs,  in  Western  New  York.  They 
give  birth  to  a  white-pebbled,  transparent  stream 
several  rods  wide  and  two  or  three  feet  deep,  that 
flows  eighty  barrels  of  water  per  second,  and  is  alive 


SPRINGS.  53 

with  trout.  The  trout  are  fat  and  gamy  even  in 
winter. 

The  largest  spring  in  England,  called  the  "Well  of 
St.  Winifred,  at  Holy  well,  flows  less  than  three  bar- 
rels per  second.  I  recently  went  many  miles  out  of 
my  way  to  see  the  famous  trout  spring  in  Warren 
County,  New  Jersey.  This  spring  flows  about  one 
thousand  gallons  of  water  per  minute,  which  has  a 
uniform  temperature  of  fifty  degrees  winter  and  sum- 
mer. It  is  near  the  Musconetcong  Creek,  which  looks 
as  if  it  were  made  up  of  similar  springs.  On  the 
parched  and  sultry  summer  day  upon  which  my  visit 
fell,  it  was  well  worth  walking  many  miles  just  to  see 
such  a  volume  of  water  issue  from  the  ground.  I 
felt  with  the  boy  Petrarch,  when  he  first  beheld  a 
famous  spring,  that  "  Were  I  master  of  such  a  foun- 
tain I  would  prefer  it  to  the  finest  of  cities."  A  large 
oak  leans  down  over  the  spring  and  affords  an  abun- 
dance of  shade.  The  water  does  not  bubble  up,  but 
comes  straight  out  with  great  speed  like  a  courier 
with  important  news,  and  as  if  its  course  under- 
ground had  been  a  direct  and  an  easy  one  for  a  long 
distance.  Springs  that  issue  in  this  way  have  a  sort 
of  vertebra,  a  ridgy  and  spine-like  centre  that  sug- 
gests the  gripe  and  push  there  is  in  this  element. 

What  would  one  not  give  for  such  a  spring  in  his 
back-yard,  or  front-yard,  or  anywhere  near  his  house, 
or  in  any  of  his  fields  ?  One  would  be  tempted  to 
move  his  house  to  it,  if  the  spring  could  not  be 
brought  to  the  house.  Its  mere  poetic  value  and 


54  SPRINGS. 

suggestion  would  be  worth  all  the  art  arid  ornament 
to  be  had.  It  would  irrigate  one's  heart  and  char- 
acter as  well  as  his  acres.  Then  one  might  have  a 
Naiad  Queen  to  do  his  churning  and  to  saw  his 
wood  ;  then  one  might  "  see  his  chore  done  by  the 
gods  themselves,"  as  Emerson  says,  or  by  the  nymphs, 
which  is  just  as  well. 

I  know  a  homestead  situated  on  one  of  the  pict- 
uresque branch  valleys  of  the  Housatonic,  that  has 
such  a  spring  flowing  by  the  foundation  walls  of  the 
house,  and  not  a  little  of  the  strong  overmastering 
local  attachment  that  holds  the  owner  there  is  born 
of  that  —  his  native  spring.  He  could  not,  if  he 
would,  break  from  it.  He  says  that  when  he  looks 
down  into  it  he  has  a  feeling  that  he  is  an  amphibi- 
ous animal  that  has  somehow  got  stranded.  A  long, 
gentle  flight  of  stone  steps  leads  from  the  back  porch 
down  to  it  under  the  branches  of  a  lofty  elm.  It 
wells  up  through  the  white  sand  and  gravel  as  through 
a  sieve,  and  fills  the  broad  space  that  has  been  ar- 
ranged for  it  so  gently  and  imperceptibly  that  one 
does  not  suspect  its  copiousness  until  he  has  seen  the 
overflow.  It  turns  no  wheel,  yet  it  lends  a  pliant 
hand  to  many  of  the  affairs  of  that  household.  It  \a 
a  refrigerator  in  summer  and  a  frost-proof  envelope 
in  winter,  and  a  fountain  of  delights  the  year  round. 
Trout  come  up  from  the  Weebutook  River  and  dwell 
there  and  become  domesticated,  and  take  lumps  of 
butter  from  your  hand,  or  rake  the  ends  of  your 
fingers  if  you  tempt  them.  It  is  a  kind  of  sparkling 


SPRINGS.  55 

and  ever-washed  ladder.  Where  are  the  berries? 
where  is  the  butter,  the  milk,  the  steak,  the  melon  ? 
In  the  spring.  It  preserves,  it  ventilates,  it  cleanses. 
It  is  a  board  of  health  and  general  purveyor.  It  is 
equally  for  use  and  for  pleasure.  Nothing  degrades 
it,  and  nothing  can  enhance  its  beauty.  It  is  picture 
and  parable,  and  an  instrument  of  music.  It  is  serv- 
ant and  divinity  in  one.  The  milk  of  forty  cows  is 
cooled  in  it,  and  never  a  drop  gets  into  the  cans, 
though  they  are  plunged  to  the  brim.  It  is  as  in- 
sensible to  drought  and  rain  as  to  heat  and  cold.  It 
is  planted  upon  the  sand  and  yet  it  abideth  like  a 
house  upon  a  rock.  It  evidently  has  some  relation  to 
a  little  brook  that  flows  down  through  a  deep  notch 
in  the  hills  half  a  mile  distant,  because  on  one  occa- 
sion, when  the  brook  was  being  ditched  or  dammed, 
the  spring  showed  great  perturbation.  Every  nymph 
in  it  was  filled  with  sudden  alarm  and  kicked  up  a 
commotion. 

In  some  sections  of  the  country,  when  there  is  no 
spring  near  the  house,  the  farmer,  with  much  labor 
and  pains,  brings  one  from  some  up-lying  field  or 
wood.  Pine  and  poplar  logs  are  bored  and  laid  in  a 
trench,  and  the  spring  practically  moved  to  the  de- 
aired  spot.  The  ancient  Persians  had  a  law,  that 
whoever  thus  conveyed  the  water  of  a  spring  to  a  spot 
not  watered  before  should  enjoy  many  immunities 
under  the  state  not  granted  to  others. 

Hilly  and  mountainous  countries  do  not  always 
tbound  in  good  springs.  When  the  stratum  is  verti- 


56  SPRINGS. 

cal,  or  has  too  great  a  dip,  the  w^ter  is  not  collected 
in  large  veins,  but  is  rather  held  as  it  falls  and  oozes 
out  slowly  at  the  surface  over  the  top  of  the  rock. 
On  this  account  one  of  the  most  famous  grass  and 
dairy  sections  of  New  York  is  poorly  supplied  with 
springs.  Every  creek  starts  in  a  bog  or  marsh,  and 
good  water  can  be  had  only  by  excavating. 

What  a  charm  lurks  about  those  springs  that  are 
found  near  the  tops  of  mountains,  so  small  that  they 
get  lost  amid  the  rocks  and  debris  and  never  reach 
the  valley,  and  so  cold  that  they  make  the  throat 
ache  !  Every  hunter  and  mountain-climber  can  tell 
you  of  such  —  usually  on  the  last  rise  before  the  sum- 
mit is  cleared.  It  is  eminently  the  hunter's  spring. 
I  do  not  know  whether  or  not  the  foxes  and  other 
wild  creatures  lap  at  it,  but  their  pursuers  are  quite 
apt  to  pause  there  and  take  breath  or  eat  their  lunch. 
The  mountain-climbers  in  summer  hail  it  with  a 
shout.  It  is  always  a  surprise,  and  raises  the  spirits 
of  the  dullest.  Then  it  seems  to  be  born  of  wildness 
and  remoteness,  and  to  savor  of  some  special  benefit 
or  good  fortune.  A  spring  in  the  valley  is  an  idyl, 
but  a  spring  on  the  mountain' is  a  genuine  lyrical 
touch.  It  imparts  a  milct  thrill ;  and  if  one  were  to 
call  any  springs  "  miracles,"  as  the  natives  of  Cash- 
mere are  said  to  regard  their  fountains,  it  would  be 
such  as  these. 

What  secret  attraction  draws  one  in  his  summer 
walk  to  touch  at  all  the  springs  on  his  route,  and  to 
pause  a  moment  at  each,  as  if  what  he  was  in  quest 


SPRINGS.  57 

of  would  be  likely  to  turn  up  there?  I  can  seldom 
pass  a  spring  without  doing  homage  to  it.  It  is  the 
shrine  at  which  I  oftenest  worship.  If  I  find  one 
fouled  with  leaves  or  trodden  full  by  cattle,  I  take  as 
much  pleasure  in  cleaning  it  out  as  a  devotee  in  set- 
ting up  the  broken  image  of  his  Saint.  Though  I 
chance  not  to  want  to  drink  there,  I  like  to  behold  a 
clear  fountain,  and  I  may  want  to  drink  next  time 
I  pass,  or  some  traveler,  or  heifer,  or  milch  cow  may. 
Leaves  have  a  strange  fatality  for  the  spring.  They 
come  from  afar  to  get  into  it.  In  a  grove  or  in  the 
woods  they  drift  into  it  and  cover  it  up  like  snow. 
Late  in  November,  in  clearing  one  out,  I  brought 
forth  a  frog  from  his  hibernacle  in  the  leaves  at  the 
bottom.  He  was  very  black  and  he  rushed  about  in 
a  bewildered  manner  like  one  suddenly  aroused  from 
his  sleep. 

There  is  no  place  more  suitable  for  statuary  than 
about  a  spring  or  fountain,  especially  in  parks  or  im- 
proved fields.  Here  one  seems  to  expect  to  see  fig- 
ures and  bending  forms.  "  Where  a  spring  rises  or 
a  river  flows,"  says  Seneca,  "  there  should  we  build 
altars,  and  offer  sacrifices." 

I  have  spoken  of  the  hunter's  spring.  The  travel- 
er's spring  is  a  little  cup  or  saucer-shaped  fountain 
set  in  the  bank  by  the  roadside.  The  harvester's 
spring  is  beneath  a  wide-spreading  tree  in  the  fields. 
The  lover's  spring  is  down  a  lane  under  a  hill.  There 
is  a  good  screen  of  rocks  and  bushes.  The  hermit's 
spring  is  on  the  margin  of  a  lake  in  the  woods.  The 


58  SPRINGS. 

fisherman's  spring  is  by  the  river.  The  miner  finds  his 
spring  in  the  bowels  of  the  mountain.  The  soldier's 
spring  is  wherever  he  can  fill  his  canteen.  The  spring 
where  school-boys  go  to  fill  the  pail  is  a  long  way  up 
or  down  a  hill,  and  has  just  been  roiled  by  a  frog  or 
musk-rat,  and  the  boys  have  to  wait  till  it  settles. 
There  is  yet  the  milkman's  spring  that  never  dries, 
the  water  ojf  which  is  milky  and  opaque.  Sometimes 
it  flows  out  of  a  chalk  cliff.  This  latter  is  a  hard 
spring :  all  the  others  are  soft. 

There  is  another  side  to  this  subject,  —  the  marvel- 
ous, not  to  say  the  miraculous ;  and  if  I  were  to 
advert  to  all  the  curious  or  infernal  springs  that 
are  described  by  travelers  or  others,  —  the  sulphur 
springs,  the  mud  springs,  the  sour  springs,  the  soap 
springs,  the  soda  springs,  the  blowing  springs,  the 
spouting  springs,  the  boiling  springs  not  one  mile 
from  Tophet,  the  springs  that  rise  and  fall  with  the 
tide,  the  spring  spoken  of  by  Vitruvius,  that  gave  un- 
wonted loudness  to  the  voice  ;  the  spring  that  Plu- 
tarch tells  about,  that  had  something  of  the  flavor  of 
wine,  because  it  was  supposed  tjhat  Bacchus  had  been 
washed  in  it  immediately  after  his  birth  ;  the  spring 
that  Herodotus  describes,  —  wise  man  and  credulous 
boy  that  he  was,  —  called  the  "  Fountain  of  the 
Sun,"  which  was  warm  at  dawn,  cold  at  noon,  and 
hot  at  midnight ;  the  springs  at  San  Filippo,  Italy, 
that  have  built  up  a  calcareous  wall  over  a  mile  long 
and  several  hundred  feet  thick ;  the  renowned  springs 
»f  Cashmere,  that  are  believed  by  the  people  to  be 


SPKINGS.  69 

the  source  of  the  comeliness  of  their  women,  etc.,  — 
if  I  were  to  follow  up  my  subject  in  this  direction,  I 
Bay,  it  would  lead  me  into  deeper  and  more  troubled 
waters  than  I  am  in  quest  of  at  present. 

Pliny,  in  a  letter  to  one  of  his  friends,  gives  the  fol- 
lowing account  of  a  spring  that  flowed  near  his  Lau- 
ren tine  villa:  — 

"  There  is  a  spring  which  rises  in  a  neighboring  mount- 
ain, and  running  among  the  rocks  is  received  into  a  little 
banqueting-room,  artificially  formed  for  that  purpose, 
from  whence,  after  being  detained  a  short  time,  it  falls 
into  the  Larian  Lake.  The  nature  of  this  spring  is  ex- 
tremely curious:  it  ebbs  and  flows  regularly  three  times 
a  day.  The  increase  and  decrease  are  plainly  visible, 
and  exceedingly  interesting  to  observe.  You  sit  down 
by  the  side  of  the  fountain,  and  while  you  are  taking  a  re- 
past and  drinking  its  water,  which  is  exceedingly  cool,  you 
see  it  gradually  rise  and  fall.  If  you  place  a  ring  or  any- 
thing else  at  the  bottom,  when  it  is  dry,  the  water  creeps 
gradually  up,  first  gently  washing,  finally  covering  it  en- 
tirely, and  then,  little  by  little,  subsides  again.  If  you 
wait  long  enough,  you  may  see  it  thus  alternately  advance 
and  recede  three  successive  times/' 

Pliny  suggests  four  or  five  explanations  of  this 
phenomenon,  but  is  probably  wide  of  the  mark  in  all 
but  the  fourth  one  :  — 

44  Or  is  there  rather  a  certain  reservoir  that  contains 
these  waters  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  and  while  it  ia 
recruiting  its  discharges,  the  stream  in  consequence  flows 
more  slowly  and  in  less  quantity,  but,  when  it  has  col- 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  HONEY-BEE. 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE   HONEY-BEE. 

THERE  is  no  creature  with  which  man  has  sur- 
rounded himself  that  seems  so  much  like  a  prod- 
uct of  civilization,  so  much  like  the  result  of  de- 
velopment on  special  lines  and  in  special  fields,  as 
the  honey-bee.  Indeed,  a  colony  of  bees,  with  their 
neatness  and  love  of  order,  their  division  of  labor, 
their  public  spiritedness,  their  thrift,  their  complex 
economies  and  their  inordinate  love  of  gain,  seems  as 
far  removed  from  a  condition  of  rude  nature  as  does 
a  walled  city  or  a  cathedral  town.  Our  native  bee,  on 
the  other  hand,  "  the  burly,  dozing  bumble-bee,"  af- 
fects one  more  like  the  rude,  untutored  savage.  He 
has  learned  nothing  from  experience.  He  lives  from 
hand  to  mouth.  He  luxuriates  in  time  of  plenty, 
and  he  starves  in  times  of  scarcity.  He  lives  in  a 
rude  nest  or  in  a  hole  in  the  ground,  and  in  small 
communities  ;  he  builds  a  few  deep  cells  or  sacks  in 
which  he  stores  a  little  honey  and  bee-bread  for  his 
young,  but  as  a  worker  in  wax  he  is  of  the  most 
primitive  and  awkward.  The  Indian  regarded  the 
honey-bee  as  an  ill-omen.  She  was  the  white  man's 
5 


66  AN   IDYL   OF   THE   HONEY-BEE. 

fly.  In  fact  she  was  the  epitome  of  the  white  man 
himself.  She  has  the  white  man's  craftiness,  his  in- 
dustry, his  architectural  skill,  his  neatness  and  love 
of  system,  his  foresight ;  and  above  all,  his  eager, 
miserly  habits.  The  honey-bee's  great  ambition  is  to 
be  rich,  to  lay  up  great  stores,  to  possess  the  sweet 
of  every  flower  that  blooms.  She  is  more  than  prov- 
ident. Enough  will  not  satisfy  her ;  she  must  have 
all  she  can  get  by  hook  or  by  crook.  She  comes 
from  the  oldest  country,  Asia,  and  thrives  best  in 
the  most  fertile  and  long-settled  lands. 

Yet  the  fact  remains  that  the  honey-bee  is  essen- 
tially a  wild  creature,  and  never  has  been  and  can- 
not be  thoroughly  domesticated.  Its  proper  home  is 
the  woods,  and  thither  every  new  swarm  counts  on 
going ;  and  thither  many  do  go  in  spite  of  the  care 
and  watchfulness  of  the  bee-keeper.  If  the  woods 
in  any  given  locality  are  deficient  in  trees  with  suit- 
able cavities  the  bees  resort  to  all  sorts  of  make- 
shifts ;  they  go  into  chimneys,  into  barns  and  out- 
houses, under  stones,  into  rocks,  and  so  forth.  Sev- 
eral chimneys  in  my  locality  with  disused  flues  are 
taken  possession  of  by  colonies, of  bees  nearly  every 
season.  '  One  day  while-  bee-hunting  I  developed  a 
line  that  went  toward  a  farm-house  where  I  had  rea- 
son to  believe  no  bees  were  kept.  I  followed  it  up 
and  questioned  the  farmer  about  his  bees.  He  said 
he  kept  no  bees,  but  that  a  swarm  had  taken  pos- 
Bession  of  his  chimney,  and  another  had  gone  under 
the  clapboards  in  the  gable  end  of  his  house.  He 


AN  IDYL   OF   THE  HONEY-BEE.  67 

had  taken  a  large  lot  of  honey  out  of  .both  places 
the  year  before.  Another  farmer  told  me  that  one 
day  his  family  had  seen  a  number  of  bees  examining 
a  knot-hole  in  the  side  of  his  house  ;  the  next  day  as. 
they  were  sitting  down  to  dinner  their  attention  was 
attracted  by  a  loud  humming  noise,  when  they  dis- 
covered a  swarm  of  bees  settling  upon  the  side  of  the- 
house  and  pouring  into  the  knot-hole.  In  subse- 
quent years  other  swarms  came  to  the  same  place* 

Apparently  every  swarm  of  bees  before  it  leaves, 
the  parent  hive  sends  out  exploring  parties  to  look 
up  the  future  home.  The  woods  and  groves  are 
searched  through  and  through,  and  no  doubt  the  pri- 
vacy of  many  a  squirrel  and  many  a  wood  mouse  ia 
intruded  upon.  What  cozy  nooks  and  retreats  they 
do  spy  out,  so  much  more  attractive  than  the  painted 
hive  in  the  garden,  so  much  cooler  in  summer  and  so 
much  warmer  in  winter  ! 

The  bee  is  in  the  main  an,  honest  citizen  ;  she  pre- 
fers legitimate  to  illegitimate  business ;  she  is  never 
an  outlaw  until  her  proper  sources  of  supply  fail ; 
she  will  not  touch  honey  as  long  as  honey-yielding 
flowers  can  be  found ;  she  always  prefers  to  go  to 
the  fountain-head,  and  dislikes  to  take  her  sweets  at 
second  hand.  But  in  the  fall  after  the  flowers  have 
failed  she  can  be  tempted.  The  bee-hunter  takes 
advantage  of  this  fact ;  he  betrays  her  with  a  little 
honey.  He  wants  to  steal  her  stores,  and  he  first 
encourages  her  to  steal  his,  then  follows  the  thief 
home  with  her  booty.  This  is  the  whole  trick  of  the 


68  AN   IDYL  OF   THE  HONEY-BEE. 

bee-hunter.  The  bees  never  suspect  his  game,  else 
by  taking  a  circuitous  route  they  could  easily  baffle 
him.  But  the  honey-bee  has  absolutely  no  wit  or 
cunning  outside  of  her  special  gifts  as  a  gatherer  and 
storer  of  honey.  She  is  a  simple-minded  creature 
and  can  be  imposed  upon  by  any  novice.  Yet  it  is 
not  every  novice  that  can  find  a  bee-tree.  The 
sportsman  may  track  his  game  to  its  retreat  by  the 
aid  of  his  dog,  but  in  hunting  the  honey-bee  one  must 
be  his  own  dog,  and  track  his  game  through  an  ele- 
ment in  which  it  leaves  no  trail.  It  is  a  task  for  a 
sharp,  quick  eye,  and  may  test  the  resources  of  the  ; 
best  wood-craft,  \  One  autumn  when  I  devoted  much  • 
time  to  this  pursuit,  as  the  best  means  of  getting 
at  nature  and  the  open-air  exhilaration,  my  eye  be- 
came so  trained  that  bees  were  nearly  as  easy  to 
it  as  birds.  I  saw  and  heard  bees  wherever  I  went. 
One  day,  standing  on  a  street  corner  in  a  great  city, 
I  saw  above  the  trucks  and  the  traffic  a  line  of  bees 
carrying  off  sweets  from  some  grocery  or  confection- 
ery shop. 

One  looks  upon  the  woods  with  a  new  interest 
when  he  suspects  they  hold  a  colony  of  bees.  What 
a  pleasing  secret  it  is ;  a  tree  with  a  heart  of  comb 
honey,  a  decayed  oak  or  maple  with  a  bit  of  Sicily 
or  Mount  Hymettus  stowed  away  in  its  trunk  or 
branches ;  secret  chambers  where  lies  hidden  the 
wealth  of  ten  thousand  little  freebooters,  great  nug- 
gets and  wedges  of  precious  ore  gathered  with  risk 
and  labor  from  every  field  aud  wood  about.  * 


AN  IDYL   OF   THE  HONEY-BEE.  69 

-V 

But  if  you  would  know  the  delights  of  bee-hunt- 
ing, and  how  many  sweets  such  a  trip  yields  beside 
honey,  come  with  me  some  bright,  warm,  late  Sep- 
tember or  early  October  day.  It  is  the  golden  season 
of  the  year,  and  any  errand  or  pursuit  that  takes  us 
abroad  upon  the  hills  or  by  the  painted  woods  and 
along  the  amber  colored  streams  at  such  a  time  is 
enough.  So,  with  haversacks  filled  with  grapes  and 
peaches  and  apples  and  a  bottle  of  milk,  — for  we  shall 
not  be  home  to  dinner,  —  and  armed  with  a  compass, 
a  hatchet,  a  pail  and  a  box  with  a  piece  of  comb 
honey  neatly  fitted  into  it  —  any  box  the  size  of  your 
hand  with  a  lid  will  do  nearly  as  well  as  the  elaborate 
and  ingenious  contrivance  of  the  regular  bee-hunter 
—  we  sally  forth.  Our  course  at  first  lies  along  the 
highway  under  great  chestnut-trees  whose  nuts  are 
just  dropping,  then  through  an  orchard  and  across  a 
little  creek,  thence  gently  rising  through  a  long  series 
of  cultivated  fields  toward  some  high  uplying  land 
behind  which  rises  a  rugged  wooded  ridge  or  mount- 
ain, the  most  sightly  point  in  all  this  section.  Be- 
hind this  ridge  for  several  miles  the  country  is  wild, 
wooded,  and  rocky,  and  is  no  doubt  the  home  of 
«any  wild  swarms  of  bees.  What  a  gleeful  uproar 
the  robins,  cedar-birds,  high-holes  and  cow  black- 
birds make  amid  the  black  cherry  trees  as  we  pass  Cv 
along.  The  raccoons,  too,  have  been  here  after  black 
cherries,  and  we  see  their  marks  at  various  points. 
Several  crows  are  walking  about  a  newly  sowed 
wheat  field  we  pass  through,  and  we  pause  to  note 


70  AN  IDYL   OF   THE  HONEY-BEE. 

their  graceful  movements  and  glossy  coats.  I  have 
Been  no  bird  walk  the  ground  with  just  the  same  air 
the  crow  does.  It  is  not  exactly  pride ;  there  is  no 
strut  or  swagger  in  it,  though  perhaps  just  a  little 
condescension ;  it  is  the  contented,  complaisant,  and 
self-possessed  gait  of  a  lord  over  his  domains.  All 
these  acres  are  mine,  he  says,  and  all  these  crops; 
men  plow  and  sow  for  me,  and  I  stay  here  or  go 
there,  and  find  life  sweet  and  good  wherever  I  am. 
The  hawk  looks  awkward  and  out  of  place  on  the 
ground ;  the  game  birds  hurry  and  skulk,  but  the 
crow  is  at  home  and  treads  the  earth  as  if  there  were 
none  to  molest  or  make  him  afraid. 

The  crows  we  have  .always  with  us,  but  it  is  not 
every  day  or  every  season  that  one  sees  an  eagle. 
Hence  I  must  preserve  the  memory  of  one  I  saw  the 
last  day  I  went  bee-hunting.  As  I  was  laboring  up 
the  side  of  a  mountain  at  the  head  of  a  valley,  the 
noble  bird  sprang  from  the  top  of  a  dry  tree  above 
me  and  came  sailing  directly  over  my  head.  I  saw 
him  bend  his  eye  down  upon  me,  and  I  could  hear 
the  low  hum  of  his  plumage  as  if.  the  web  of  every 
quill  in  his  great  wings  vibrated  in  his  strong,  level 
light.  I  watched  him  as  long  as  my  eye  could  hold 
aim.  When  he  was  fairly  clear  of  the  mountain  he 
began  that  sweeping  spiral  movement  in  which  he 
climbs  the  sky.  Up  and  up  he  went  without  once 
breaking  his  majestic  poise  till  he  appeared  to  sight 
Borne  far-off  alien  geography,  when  he  bent  his  course 
thitherward  and  gradually  vanished  in  the  blue  depth* 


AN  IDYL   OF   THE  HONEY-BEE.  71 

fhe  eagle  is  a  bird  of  large  ideas,  he  embraces  long 
distances  ;  tbe  continent  is  his  home.  I  never  look 
upon  one  without  emotion ;  I  follow  him  with  my  eye 
as  long  as  I  can.  I  think  of  Canada,  of  the  Great 
Lakes,  of  the  Rocky  Mountains,  of  the  wild  and 
sounding  sea-coast.  The  waters  are  his,  and  the 
woods  and  the  inaccessible  cliffs.  He  pierces  behind 
the  veil  of  the  storm,  and  his  joy  is  height  and  depth 
and  vast  spaces. 

We  go  out  of  our  way  to  touch  at  a  spring  run  in 
the  edge  of  the  woods,  and  are  lucky  to  find  a  single 
scarlet  lobelia  lingering  there.  It  seems  almost  to 
light  up  the  gloom  with  its  intense  bit  of  color.  Be- 
side a  ditch  in  a  field  beyond  we  find  the  great  blue 
lobelia  (Lobelia  syphiliticd),  and  near  it  amid  the 
weeds  and  wild  grasses  and  purple  asters  the  most 
beautiful  of  our  fall  flowers,  the  fringed  gentian. 
What  a  rare  and  delicate,  almost  aristocratic  look  the 
gentian  has  amid  its  coarse,  unkempt  surroundings. 
It  does  not  lure  the  bee  but  it  lures  and  holds  every 
passing  human  eye.  If  we  strike  through  the  corner 
of  yonder  woods,  where  the  ground  is  moistened  by 
hidden  springs  and  where  there  is  a  little  opening 
amid  the  trees,  we  shall  find  the  closed  gentian,  a 
rare  flower  in  this  locality.  I  had  walked  this  way 
many  times  before  I  chanced  upon  its  retreat;  and 
then  I  was  following  a  line  of  bees.  I  lost  the  bees 
but  I  got  the  gentians.  How  curiously  this  flower 
looks  with  its  deep  blue  petals  folded  together  so 
*ightly  —  a  bud^  and  yet  a  blo&som.  It  is  the  nun 


72  AN   IDYL   OF   THE  HONEY-BEE. 

among  our  wild  flowers — a  form  closely  veiled  and 
cloaked.  The  buccaneer  bumble-bee  sometimes  tries 
to  rifle  it  of  its  sweets.  I  have  seen  the  blossom 
with  the  bee  entombed  in  it.  He  had  forced  his  way 
into  the  virgin  corolla  as  if  determined  to  know  its 
secret,  but  he  had  never  returned  with  the  knowl- 
edge he  had  gained. 

After  a  refreshing  walk  of  a  couple  of  miles  we 
reach  a  point  where  we  will  make  our  first  trial  —  a 
high  stone  wall  that  runs  parallel  with  the  wooded 
ridge  referred  to,  and  separated  from  it  by  a  broad 
field.  There  are  bees  at  work  there  on  that  golden- 
rod  and  it  requires  but  little  manoeuvring  to  sweep 
one  into  our  box.  Almost  any  other  creature  rudely 
and  suddenly  arrested  in  its  career  and  clapped  into 
a  cage  in  this  way  would  show  great  confusion  arid 
alarm.  The  bee  is  alarmed  for  a  moment,  but  the  bee 
has  a  passion  stronger  than  its  love  of  life  or  fear  of 
death,  namely,  desire  for  honey,  not  simply  to  eat, 
but  to  carry  home  as  booty,  (j  Such  rage  of  honey  in 
their  bosom  beats,3  says  Virgil.  It  is  quick  to  catch 
the  scent  of  honey  in  the  box,  and  as  quick  to  fall 
to  filling  itself.  We  now  set  the  box  down  upon  the 
wall  and  gently  remove  the  cover.  The  bee  is  head 
and  shoulders  in  one  of  the  half-filled  cells,  and  is 
oblivious  to  everything  else  about  it.  Come  rack, 
come  ruin,  it  will  die  at  work.  We  step  back  a  few 
paces,  and  sit  down  upon  the  ground  so  as  to  bring 
the  box  against  the  blue  sky  as  a  background.  In 
two  or  three  minutes  the  bee  is  seen  rising  slowlj 


AN  IDYL   OF   THE   HONEY-BEE.  73 

Mid  heavily  from  the  box.  It  seems  loath  to  leave  so 
much  honey  behind  and  it  marks  the  place  well.  It 
mounts  aloft  in  a  rapidly  increasing  spiral,  surveying 
the  near  and  minute  objects  first,  then  the  larger  and 
more  distant,  till  having  circled  above  the  spot  five 
or  six  times  and  taken  all  its  bearings  it  darts  away 
for  home.  It  is  a  good  eye  that  holds  fast  to  the  bee 
till  it  is  fairly  off.  Sometimes  one's  head  will  swim 
following  it,  and  often  one's  eyes  are  put  out  by  the 
sun.  This  bee  gradually  drifts  down  the  hill,  then 
strikes  away  toward  a  farm-house  half  a  mile  away 
where  I  know  bees  are  kept.  Then  we  try  another 
and  another,  and  the  third  bee,  much  to  our  satisfac- 
tion, goes  straight  toward  the  woods.  We  could  see 
the  brown  speck  against  the  darker  background  for 
many  yards.  The  regular  bee-hunter  professes  to  be 
able  to  tell  a  wild  bee  from  a  tame  one  by  the  color, 
the  former,  he  says,  being  lighter.  'But  there  is  no 
difference ;  they  are  both  alike  in  color  and  in  man-  ' 
ner.  Young  bees  are  lighter  than  old,  and  that  is  all 
there  is  of  it.  If  a  bee  lived  many  years  in  the 
woods  it  would  doubtless  come  to  have  some  distin- 
guishing marks,  but  the  life  of  a  bee  is  only  a  few 
months  at  the  farthest,  and  no  change  is  wrought  in 
this  brief  time. 

Our  bees  are  all  soon  back,  and  more  with  them, 
for  we  have  touched  the  box  here  and  there  with  the 
",ork  of  a  bottle  of  anise  oil,  and  this  fragrant  and 
pungent  oil  will  attract  bees  half  a  mile  or  more. 
When  no  flowers  can  be  found  this  is  the  quickest 
*ay  to  obtain  a  bee. 


74  AN  IDYL   OF   THE   HONEY-BEE. 

It  is  a  singular  fact  that  when  the  bee  first  finds 
the  hunter's  box  its  first  feeling  is  one  of  anger ;  it 
is  as  mad  as  a  hornet ;  its  tone  changes,  it  sounds  its 
shrill  war  trumpet  and  darts  to  and  fro,  and  gives 
vent. to  its  rage  and  indignation  in  no  uncertain  man- 
ner. It  seems  to  scent  foul  play  at  once.  It  says, 
"  Here  is  robbery ;  here  is  the  spoil  of  some  hive, 
may  be  my  own,"  and  its  blood  is  up.  But  its  ruling 
passion  soon  comes  to  the  surface,  its  avarice  gets 
the  better  of  its  indignation,  and  it  seems  to  say, 
"  "Well,  I  had  better  take  possession  of  this  and  carry 
it  home."  So  after  many  feints  and  approaches  and 
dartings  off  with  a  loud  angry  hum  as  if  it  would 
none  of  it,  the  bee  settles  down  and  fills  itself. 

It  does  not  entirely  cool  off  and  get  soberly  to 
work  till  it  has  made  two  or  three  trips  home  with 
its  booty.  When  other  bees  come,  even  if  all  from 
the  same  swarm,  they  quarrel  and  dispute  over  the 
box,  and  clip  and  dart  at  each  other  like  bantam 
cocks.  Apparently  the  ill  feeling  which  the  sight  of 
the  honey  awakens  is  not  one  of  jealousy  or  rivalry, 
but  wrath. 

A  bee  will  usually  make  three  or  four  trips  frorr. 
the  hunter's  box  before  it  brings  back  a  companion, 
I  suspect  the  bee  does  not  tell  its  fellows  what  it  has 
found,  but  that  they  smell  out  the  secret ;  it  doubt- 
less bears  some  evidence  with  it  upon  its  feet  or  pro- 
boscis that  it  has  been  upon  honey-comb  and  not  upon 
ilowers,  and  its  companions  take  the  hint  and  follow., 
arriving  always  many  seconds  behind.  Then  th€ 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  HONEY-BEE.  75 

quantity  and  quality  of  the  booty  would  also  betray 
it.  No  doubt,  also,  there  are  plenty  of  gossips  about 
a  hive  that  note  and  tell  everything.  "  Oh,  did  you 
see  that  ?  Peggy  Mel  came  in  a  few  moments  ago 
in  great  haste,  and  one  of  the  up-stairs  packers  says 
she  was  loaded  till  she  groaned  with  apple-blossom 
honey  which  she  deposited,  and  then  rushed  off  again 
like  mad.  Apple-blossom  honey  in  October !  Fee, 
fi,  fo,  f urn  !  I  smell  something !  Let 's  after." 

In  about  half  an  hour  we  have  three  well-defined 
lines  of  bees  established  —  two  to  farm-houses  and 
one  to  the  woods,  and  our  box  is  being  rapidly  de- 
pleted of  its  honey.  About  every  fourth  bee  goes  to 
the  woods,  and  now  that  they  have  learned  the  way 
thoroughly  they  do  not  make  the  long  preliminary 
whirl  above  the  box,  but  start  directly  from  it.  The 
woods  are  rough  and  dense  and  the  hill  steep,  and  we 
do  not  like  to  follow  the  line  of  bees  until  we  have 
tried  at  least  to  settle  the  problem  as  to  the  distance 
they  go  into  the  woods  —  whether  the  tree  is  on  this 
side  of  the  ridge  or  into  the  depth  of  the  forest  on 
the  other  side.  So  we  shut  up  the  box  when  it  is 
full  of  bees  and  carry  it  about  three  hundred  yards 
along  the  wall  from  which  we  are  operating.  When 
liberated,  the  bees,  as  they  always  will  in  such  cases, 
go  off  in  the  same  directions  they  have  been  going ; 
they  do  not  seem  to  know  that  they  have  been  moved. 
But  other  bees  have  followed  our  scent,  arid  it  is  not 
many  minutes  before  a  second  line  to  the  woods  is 
established.  This  is  called  cross-lining  the  bees.  The 


76  AN  IDYL  OF  THE  HONEY-BEE. 

new  line  makes  a  sharp  angle  with  the  other  line, 
and  we  know  at  once  that  the  tree  is  only  a  few 
rods  into  the  woods.  The  two  lines  we  have  estab- 
lished form  two  sides  of  a  triangle  of  which  the  wall 
is  the  base ;  at  the  apex  of  the  triangle,  or  where  the 
two  lines  meet  in  the  woods,  we  are  sure  to  find  the 
tree.  We  quickly  follow  up  these  lines,  and  where 
they  cross  each  other  on  the  side  of  the  hill  we  scan 
every  tree  closely.  I  pause  at  the  foot  of  an  oak 
and  examine  a  hole  near  the  root ;  now  the  bees  are 
in  this  tree  and  their  entrance  is  on  the  upper  side 
near  the  ground  not  two  feet  from  the  hole  I  peer 
into,  and  yet  so  quiet  and  secret  is  their  going  and 
coming  that  I  fail  to  discover  them  and  pass  on  up 
the  hill.  Failing  in  this  direction  I  return  to  the 
oak  again,  and  then  perceive  the  bees  going  out  in  a 
small  crack  in  the  tree.  The  bees  do  not  know  they 
are  found  out  and  that  the  game  is  in  our  hands,  and 
are  as  oblivious  of  our  presence  as  if  we  were  ants 
or  crickets.  The  indications  are  that  the  swarm  is  a 
small  one,  and  the  store  of  honey  trifling.  In  "  tak- 
ing up  "  a  bee-tree  it  is  usual  first  to  kill  or  stupefy 
the  bees  with  the  fumes  of  burning  sulphur  or  with 
tobacco  smoke.  But  this  course  is  impracticable  on 
the  present  occasion,  so  we  boldly  and  ruthlessly  as- 
sault the  tree  with  an  ax  we  have  procured.  At  the 
first  blow  the  bees  set  up  a  loud  buzzing,  but  we 
have  no  mercy,  and  the  side  of  the  cavity  is  soon  cut 
away  and  the  interior  with  its  white-yellow  mass  oi 
comb-honey  is  exposed,  and  not  a  bee  strikes  a  bloif 


AN  IDYL   OF   THE   HONEY-BEE.  77 

m  defense  of  its  all.  This  may  seem  singular,  but 
it  has  nearly  always  been  my  experience.  When  a 
swarm  of  bees  are  thus  rudely  assaulted  with  an  ax 
they  evidently  think  the  end  of  the  world  has  come, 
and,  like  true  misers  as  they  are,  each  one  seizes  as 
much  of  the  treasure  as  it  can  hold ;  in  other  words, 
they  all  fall  to  and  gorge  themselves  with  honey,  and 
calmly  await  the  issue.  While  in  this  condition  they 
make  no  defense  and  will  not  sting  unless  taken  hold 
of.  In  fact  they  are  as  harmless  as  flies.  Bees  are 
always  to  be  managed  with  boldness  and  decision. 
Any  half-way  measures,  any  timid  poking  about,  any 
feeble  attempts  to  reach  their  honey,  are  sure  to  be 
quickly  resented.  The  popular  notion  that  bees  have 
a  special  antipathy  toward  certain  persons  and  a  lik- 
ing for  certain  others  has  only  this  fact  at  the  bottom 
of  it :  they  will  sting  a  person  who  is  afraid  of  them 
and  goes  skulking  and  dodging  about,  and  they  will 
not  sting  a  person  who  faces  them  boldly  and  has  no 
dread  of  them.  They  are  like  dogs.  The  way  to 
disarm  a  vicious  dog  is  to  show  him  you  do  not  fear 
him ;  it  is  his  turn  to  be  afraid  then.  I  never  had 
any  dread  of  bees  and  am  seldom  stung  by  them.  I 
have  climbed  up  into  a  large  chestnut  that  contained 
a  swarm  in  one  of  its  cavities  arid  chopped  them  out 
with  an  ax,  being  obliged  at  times  to  pause  and  brush 
the  bewildered  bees  from  my  hands  and  face,  and  not 
been  stung  once.  I  have  chopped  a  swarm  out  of 
an-  apple-tree  in  June  and  taken  out  the  cards  of 
and  arranged  them  in  a  hive,  and  then  dipped 


78  AN  IDYL  OF   THE   HONEY-BEE. 

out  the  bees  with  a  dipper,  and  taken  the  whole 
home  with  me  in  pretty  good  condition,  with  scarcely 
any  opposition  on  the  part  of  the  bees.  In  reach- 
ing your  hand  into  the  cavity  to  detach  and  remove 
the  comb  you  are  pretty  sure  to  get  stung,  for  when 
you  touch  the  "  business  end  "  of  a  bee,  it  will  sting 
even  though  its  head  be  off.  But  the  bee  carries  the 
antidote  to  its  own  poison.  The  best  remedy  for  bee 
sting  is  honey,  and  when  your  hands  are  besmeared 
with  honey,  as  they  are  sure  to  be  on  such  occasions, 
the  wound  is  scarcely  more  painful  than  the  prick  of 
a  piri.  Assault  your  bee-tree,  then,  boldly  with  your 
ax,  and  you  will  find  that  when  the  honey  is  exposed 
every  bee  has  surrendered  and  the  whole  swarm  is 
cowering  in  helpless  bewilderment  and  terror.  Our 
tree  yields  only  a  few  pounds  of  honey,  not  enough 
to  have  lasted  the  swarm  till  January,  but  no  matter : 
we  have  the  less  burden  to  carry. 

In  the  afternoon  we  go  nearly  half  a  mile  farther 
along  the  ridge  to  a  corn-field  that  lies  immediately 
in  front  of  the  highest  point  of  the  mountain.  The 
view  is  superb  ;  the  ripe  autumn  landscape  rolls  away 
to  the  east,  cut  through  by  the  great  placid  river ;  in 
the  extreme  north  the  wall  of  the  Catskills  stands  out 
clear  and  strong,  while  in  the  south  the  mountains 
of  the  Highlands  bound  the  view.  The  day  is  warm 
and  the  bees  are  very  busy  there  in  that  neglected 
corner  of  the  field,  rich  in  asters,  flea-bane,  and 
golden-rod.  The  corn  has  been  cut,  and  upon  a  stout 
but  a  few  rods  from  the  woods,  which  here  drop 


AN   IDYL    OF    THE    HONEY-BEE.  79 

quickly  down  from  the  precipitous  heights,  we  set  up 
our  bee-box,  touched  again  with  the  pungent  oil.  In 
a  few  moments  a  bee  has  found  it ;  she  comes  up  to 
leeward,  following  the  scent.  On  leaving  the  box  she 
goes  straight  toward  the  woods.  More  bees  quickly 
come  and  it  is  not  long  before  the  line  is  well  estab- 
lished. Now  we  have  recourse  to  the  same  tactics 
we  employed  before,  and  move  along  the  ridge  to 
another  field  to  get  our  cross  line.  But  the  bees  still 
go  in  almost  the  same  direction  they  did  from  the 
corn  stout.  The  tree  is  then  either  on  the  top  of  the 
mountain,  or  on  the  other  or  west  side  of  it.  We 
hesitate  to  make  the  plunge  into  the  woods  and  seek 
to  scale  those  precipices,  for  the  eye  can  plainly  see 
what  is  before  us.  As  the  afternoon  sun  gets  lower 
the  bees  are  seen  with  wonderful  distinctness.  They 
fly  toward  and  under  the  sun  and  are  in  a  strong 
light,  while  the  near  woods  which  form  the  back- 
ground are  in  deep  shadow.  They  look  like  large 
luminous  motes.  Their  swiftly  vibrating,  transparent 
wings  surround  their  bodies  with  a  shining  nimbus 
that  makes  them  visible  for  a  long  distance.  They 
seem  magnified  many  times.  We  see  them  bridge 
the  little  gulf  between  us  and  the  woods,  then  rise 
up  over  the  tree-tops  with  their  burdens,  swerving 
neither  to  the  right  hand  nor  to  the  left.  It  is  al- 
most pathetic  to  see  them  labor  so,  climbing  the 
mountain  and  unwittingly  guiding  us  to  their  treas- 
ures. When  the  sun  gets  down  so  that  his  direction 
corresponds  exactly  with  the  course  of  the  bees,  we 


80  AN  IDYL  OF   THE  HONEY-BEE. 

make  the  plunge.  It  proves  even  harder  climbing 
than  we  had  anticipated  ;  the  mountain  is  faced  by 
a  broken  and  irregular  wall  of  rock  up  which  we  pull 
ourselves  slowly  and  cautiously  by  main  strength. 
In  half  an  hour,  the  perspiration  streaming  from 
every  pore,  we  reach  the  summit.  The  trees  here 
are  all  small,  a  second  growth,  and  we  are  soon  con- 
vinced the  bees  are  not  here.  Then  down  we  go  on 
the  other  side,  clambering  down  the  rocky  stair-ways 
till  we  reach  quite  a  broad  plateau  that  forms  some- 
thing like  the  shoulder  of  the  mountain.  On  the 
brink  of  this  there  are  many  large  hemlocks,  and  we 
scan  them  closely  and  rap  upon  them  with  our  ax. 
But  not  a  bee  is  seen,  or  heard ;  we  do  not  seem  as 
near  the  tree  as  we  were  in  the  fields  below ;  yet  if 
some  divinity  would  only  whisper  the  fact  to  us  we 
are  within  a  few  rods  of  the  coveted  prize,  which  is 
not  in  one  of  the  large  hemlocks  or  oaks  that  absorb 
our  attention,  but  in  an  old  stub  or  stump  not  six  feet 
high,  and  which  we  have  seen  and  passed  several 
times  without  giving  it  a  thought.  We  go  farther 
down  the  mountain  and  beat  about  to  the  right  and 
left  and  get  entangled  in  brush  and  arrested  by  prec- 
ipices, and  finally,  as  the  day  is  nearly  spent,  give  up 
the  search  and  leave  the  woods  quite  baffled,  but  re- 
solved to  return  on  the  morrow.  The  next  day  we 
come  back  and  commence  operations  in  an  opening 
in  the  woods  well  down  on  the  side  of  the  mountain, 
where  we  gave  up  the  search.  Our  box  is  soon 
fwarming  with  the  eager  bees,  and  they  go  back  to 


AN  IDYL   OF   THE   HONEY-BEE.  81 

«rard  the  summit  we  hare  passed.  We  follow  back 
and  establish  a  new  line  where  the  ground  will  per- 
mit ;  then  another  and  still  another,  and  yet  the  rid- 
dle is  not  solved.  One  time  we  are  south  of  them, 
then  north,  then  the  bees  get  up  through  the  trees 
and  we  cannot  tell  where  they  go.  But  after  much 
searching  and  after  the  mystery  seems  rather  to 
deepen  than  to  clear  up,  we  chance  to  pause  beside 
the  old  stump.  A  bee  comes  out  of  a  small  open- 
ing like  that  made  by  ants  in  decayed  wood,  rubs  its 
eyes  and  examines  its  antenna  as  bees  always  do  be- 
fore leaving  their  hive,  then  takes  flight.  At  the 
same  instant  several  bees  come  by  us  loaded  with  our 
honey  and  settle  home  with  that  peculiar  low  com- 
placent buzz  of  the  well-filled  insect.  Here  then  is 
our  idyl,  our  bit  of  Virgil  and  Theocritus,  in  a  de- 
cayed  stump  of  a  hemlock  tree.  We  could  tear  it 
open  with  our  hands  and  a  bear  would  find  it  an  easy 
prize,  and  a  rich  one  too,  for  we  take  from  it  fifty 
pounds  of  excellent  honey.  The  bees  have  been 
here  many  years  and  have  of  course  sent  out  swarm 
after  swarm  into  the  wilds.  They  have  protected 
themselves  against  the  weather  and  strengthened 
their  shaky  habitation  by  a  copious  use  of  wax. 

When  a  bee-tree  is  thus  "  taken  up  "  in  the  middle 
of  the  day,  of  course  a  good  many  bees  are  away 
?rom  home  and  have  not  heard  the  news.  When 
they  return  and  find  the  ground  flowing  with  honey, 
and  piles  of  bleeding  combs  lying  about,  they  appar- 
ently do  not  recognize  the  place,  and  their  first  hi- 
fi 


82  AN  IDYf,  OF   THE   HONEY-BEE. 

4« 

Btinct  is  to  fall  to  and  fill  themselves ;  this  done,  their 
next  thought  is  to  carry  it  home,  so  they  rise  up 
slowly  through  the  branches  of  the  trees  till  they 
have  attained  an  altitude  that  enables  them  to  suryey 
the  scene,  when  they  seem  to  say,  "  Why,  this  is 
home,"  and  down  they  come  again;  beholding  the 
wreck  and  ruins  once  more  they  still  think  there  is 
some  mistake,  and  get  up  a  second  or  a  third  time 
and  then  drop  back  pitifully  as  before.  It  is  the 
most  pathetic  sight  of  all,  the  surviving  and  bewil- 
dered bees  struggling  to  save  a  few  drops  of  their 
wasted  treasures. 

Presently  if  there  is  another  swarm  in  the  woods 
robber-bees  appear.  You  may  know  them  by  their 
saucy,  chiding,  devil-may-care  hum.  It  is  an  ill  wind 
that  blows  nobody  good,  and  they  make  the  most  of 
the  misfortune  of  their  neighbors ;  and  thereby  pave 
the  way  for  their  own  ruin.  The  hunter  marks  their 
course  and  the  next  day  looks  them  up.  On  this  oc- 
casion the  day  was  hot  and  the  honey  very  fragrant, 
and  a  line  of  bees  was  soon  established  S.  S.  W. 
Though  there  was  much  refuse  honey  in  the  old 
stub,  and  though  little  golden  rills  trickled  down  the 
hill  from  it,  and  the  near  branches  and  saplings  were 
besmeared  with  it  where  we  wiped  our  murderous 
hands,  yet  not  a  drop  was  wasted.  It  was  a  feast  to 
which  not  only  honey-bees  came,  but  bumble-bees, 
wasps,  hornets,  flies,  ants.  The  bumble-bees,  which 
at  this  season  are  hungry  vagrants  with  no  fixed 
place  of  abode,  would  gorge  themselves,  then  creep 


AN  IDYL   OF   THE   HO! 


beneath  the  bits  of  empty  comb  or  fragments  of  bark 
and  pass  the  night,  and  renew  the  feast  next  day 
The  bumble-bee  is  an  insect  of  which  the  bee-huntei 
sees  much.  There  are  all  sorts  and  sizes  of  them 
They  are  dull  and  clumsy  compared  with  the  honey, 
bee.  Attracted  in  the  fields  by  the  bee-hunter's  box, 
they  will  come  up  the  wind  on  the  scent  and  blr  jder 
into  it  in  the  most  stupid,  lubberly  fashion. 

The  honey-bee  that  licked  up  our  leavings  on  the 
old  stub  belonged  to  a  swarm,  as  it  proved,  about 
half  a  mile  farther  down  the  ridge,  and  a  few  days 
afterward  fate  overtook  them,  and  their  stores  iii 
turn  became  the  prey  of  another  swarm  in  the  vi 
ciuity,  which  also  tempted  Providence  and  were  over 
whelmed.  The  first  mentioned  swarm  I  had  lineA 
from  several  points,  and  was  following  up  the  clew 
over  rocks  and  through  gulleys,  when  I  came  to  where 
a  large  hemlock  had  been  felled  a  few  years  before 
and  a  swarm  taken  from  a  cavity  near  the  top  of  it; 
fragments  of  the  old  comb  were  yet  to  be  ieen.  A 
few  yards  away  stood  another  short,  squatty  hemlock, 
and  I  said  my  bees  ought  to  be  there.  As  I  paused 
near  it  I  noticed  where  th«  tree  had  been  wounded 
with  an  ax  a  couple  of  feet  from  the  ground  man? 
years  before.  The  wound  had  partially  grown  ovei, 
but  there  was  an  opening  there  that  I  did  not  see  at 
the  first  glance.  I  was  about  to  pass  on  when  a  bee 
passed  me  making  that  peculiar  shrill,  discordant 
hum  that  a  bee  makes  when  besmeared  with  honey 
I  saw  it  alight  in  the  partially  closed  wound  and 


84  AN  IDYL   OF   THE   HONEY-BEE. 

crawl  home;  then  came  others  and  others,  little 
bands  and  squads  of  them  heavily  freighted  with 
honey  from  the  box.  The  tree  was  about  twenty 
inches  through  and  hollow  at  the  butt,  or  from  the 
ax  mark  down.  This  space  the  bees  had  completely 
filled  with  honey.  With  an  ax  we  cut  away  the 
outer  ring  of  live  wood  and  exposed  the  treasure. 
Despite  the  utmost  care,  we  wounded  the  comb  so 
that  little  rills  of  the  golden  liquid  issued  from  the 
root  of  the  tree  and  trickled  down  the  hill. 

The  other  bee-tree  in  the  vicinity  to  which  I  have 
referred  we  found  one  warm  November  day  in  less 
than  half  an  hour  after  entering  the  woods.  It  also 
was  a  hemlock  that  stood  in  a  niche  in  a  wall  of 
hoary,  moss-covered  rocks  thirty  feet  high.  The  tree 
hardly  reached  to  the  top  of  the  precipice.  The 
bees  entered  a  small  hole  at  the  root,  which  was 
Reven  or  eight  feet  from  the  ground.  The  position 
was  a  striking  one.  Never  did  apiary  have  a  finer 
outlook  or  more  rugged  surroundings.  A  black, 
wood-embraced  lake  lay  at  our  feet ;  the  long  pano- 
rama of  the  Catskills  filled  the  far  distance,  and  the 
more  broken  outlines  of  the  Shawangunk  range  filled 
the  rear.  On  every'Jband  were  precipices  and  a 
wild  confusion  of  rocks  and  trees. 

The  cavity  occupied  by  the  bees  was  about  three 
feet  and  a  half  long  and  eight  or  ten  inches  in  dia- 
meter. With  an  ax  we  cut  away  one  side  of  the  tree 
and  laid  bare  its  curiously  wrought  heart  of  honey.  It 
was  a  most  pleasing  sight.  What  winding  and  dev1" 


AN  IDYL   OF    THE   HONEY-BEE.  85 

ous  ways  the  bees  had  through  their  palace !  What 
great  masses  and  blocks  of  snow-white  comb  there 
-were  !  Where  it  was  sealed  up,  presenting  that  slightly- 
dented,  uneven  surface,  it  looked  like  some  precious; 
ore.  When  we  carried  a  large  pail  full  of  it  out  o£ 
the  woods  it  seemed  still  more  like  ore. 

Your  native  bee-hunter  predicates  the  distance  of 
the  tree  by  the  time  the  bee  occupies  in  making  its, 
first  trip.  But  this  is  no  certain  guide.  You  are  al- 
ways safe  in  calculating  that  the  tree  is  inside  of  a. 
mile,  and  you  need  not  as  a  rule  look  for  your  bee's 
return  under  ten  minutes.  One  day  I  picked  up  a. 
bee  in  an  opening  in  the  woods  and  gave  it  honey,, 
and  it  made  three  trips  to  my  box  with  an  interval 
of  about  twelve  minutes  between  them ;  it  returned 
alone  each  time;  the  tree,  which  I  afterward  found, 
was  about  half  a  mile  distant. 

In  lining  bees  through  the  woods  the  tactics  of  the 
hunter  are  to  pause  every  twenty  or  thirty  rods,  lop 
away  the  branches  or  cut  down  the  trees,  and  set  the 
bees  to  work  again.  If  they  still  go  forward,  he  goes 
forward  also  and  repeats  his  observations  till  the 
tree  is  found  or  till  the  bees  turn  and  come  back 
jpon  the  trail.  Then  he  knows  he  has  passed  the 
tree,  and  he  retraces  his  steps  to  a  convenient  dis- 
tance and  tries  again,  and  thus  quickly  reduces  the 
space  to  be  looked  over  till  the  swarm  is  traced 
borne.  On  one  occasion  in  a  wild  rocky  wood, 
where  the  surface  alternated  between  deep  gulfs  and 
chasms  filled  with  thick,  heavy  growths  of  timber 


86  AN  IDYL   OF   THE  HONEY-BEE. 

and  sharp,  precipitous,  rocky  ridges  like  a  tempest 
tossed  sea,  I  carried  my  bees  directly  under  their 
tree,  and  set  them  to  work  from  a  high,  exposed 
ledge  of  rocks  not  thirty  feet  distant.  One  would 
have  expected  them  under  such  circumstances  to 
have  gone  straight  home,  as  there  were  but  few 
branches  intervening,  but  they  did  not ;  they  labored 
up  through  the  trees  and  attained  an  altitude  above 
the  woods  as  if  they  had  miles  to  travel,  and  thus 
baffled  me  for  hours.  Bees  will  always  do  this. 
They  are  acquainted  with  the  woods  only  from  the 
top  side,  and  from  the  air  above ;  they  recognize 
home  only  by  land-marks  here,  and  in  every  instance 
they  rise  aloft  to  take  their  bearings.  Think  how 
familiar  to  them  the  topography  of  the  forest  sum- 
mits must  be  —  an  umbrageous  sea  or  plain  where 
every  mark  and  point  is  known. 

Another  curious  fact  is  that  generally  you  will  get 
track  of  a  bee-tree  sooner  when  you  are  half  a  mile 
from  it  than  when  you  are  only  a  few  yards.  Bees, 
like  us  human  insects,  have  little  faith  in  the  near  at 
hand  ;  they  expect  to  make  their  fortune  in  a  distant 
field,  they  ar.e  lured  by  the  remote  and  the  difficult, 
and  hence  overlook  the. flower  and  the  sweet  at  their 
very  door.  On  several  occasions  I  have  unwittingly 
set  my  box  within  a  few  paces  of  a  bee-tree  and 
waited  long  for  bees  without  getting  them,  when,  on 
removing  to  a  distant  field  or  opening  in  the  woods 
I  have  got  a  clew  at  once. 

I  have  a  theory  that  when  bees  leave  the 


AN    IDYL   OF   THE  HONEY-BEE.  87 

unless  there  is  some  special  attraction  in  some  other 
direction,  they  generally  go  against  the  wind.  They 
would  thus  have  the  wind  with  them  when  they 
returned  home  heavily  laden,  and  with  these  little 
navigators  the  difference  is  an  important  one.  With 
a  full  cargo,  a  stiff  head-wind  is  a  great  hindrance, 
but  fresh  and  empty-handed  they  can  face  it  with 
more  ease.  Virgil  says  bees  bear  gravel  stones  as 
ballast,  but  their  only  ballast  is  their  honey  bag. 
Hence,  when  I  go  bee-hunting,  I  prefer  to  get  to 
windward  of  the  woods  in  which  the  swarm  is  sup- 
posed to  have  taken  refuge. 

Bees,  like  the  milkman,  like  to  be  near  a  spring. 
They  do  water  their  honey,  especially  in  a  dry  time. 
The  liquid  is  then  of  course  thicker  and  sweeter,  and 
will  bear  diluting.  Hence,  old  bee-hunters  look  for 
bee-trees  along  creeks  and  near  spring  runs  in  the 
woods.  I  once  found  a  tree  a  long  distance  from 
any  water,  and  the  honey  had  a  peculiar  bitter  flavor 
imparted  to  it,  I  was  convinced,  by  rain  water  sucked 
from  the  decayed  and  spongy  hemlock  tree,  in  which 
I\Q  swarm  was  found.  In  cutting  into  the  tree,  the 
ncrth  side  of  it  was  found  to  be  saturated  with  water 
like  a  spring,  which  ran  out  in  big  drops,  and  had  a 
bitter  flavor.  The  bees  had  thus  found  a  spring  or 
a  cistern  in  their  own  house. 

Bees  are  exposed  to  many  hardships  and  many 
dangers.  Winds  and  storms  prove  as  disastrous  to 
them  as  to  other  navigators.  Black  spiders  lie  in 
wait  for  them  as  do  brigands  for  travelers.  One  day 


88  AN  IDYL   OF   THE   HONEY-BEE. 

as  I  was  looking  for  a  bee  amid  some  golden-rod,  I 
spied  one  partly  concealed  under  a  leaf.  Its  baskets 
were  full  of  pollen^  and  it  did  not  move.  On  lifting 
up  the  leaf  I  discovered  that  a  hairy  spider  was  am- 
bushed there  and  had  the  bee  by  the  throat.  The 
vampire  was  evidently  afraid  of  the  bee's  sting,  and 
was  holding  it  by  the  throat  till  quite  sure  of  its  death. 
Virgil  speaks  of  the  painted  lizard,  perhaps  a  species 
of  salamander,  as  an  enemy  of  the  honey-bee.  We 
have  no  lizard  that  destroys  the  bee ;  but  our  tree- 
toad,  ambushed  among  the  apple  and  cherry  blossoms, 
snaps  them  up  wholesale.  Quick  as  lightning  that 
subtle  but  clammy  tongue  darts  forth,  and  the  unsus- 
pecting bee  is  gone.  Virgil  also  accuses  the  titmouse 
and  the  woodpecker  of  preying  upon  the  bees,  and 
our  kingbird  has  been  charged  with  the  like  crime, 
but  the  latter  devours  only  the  drones.  The  workers 
are  either  too  small  and  quick  for  it  or  else  it  dreads 
their  sting. 

Virgil,  by  the  way,  had  little  more  than  a  child's 
knowledge  of  the  honey-bee.  There  is  little  fact 
and  much  fable  in  his  fourth  Georgic.  If  he  had 
ever  kept  bees  himself,  or  even  visited  an  apiary,  it  is 
hard  to  see  how  he  could  have  believed  that  the  bee 
In  its  flight  abroad  carried  a  gravel  stone  for  ballast 

"  And  as  when  empty  barks  on  billows  float, 
With  sandy  ballast  sailors  trim  the  boat ; 
So  bees  bear  gravel  stones,  whose  poising  weight 
Steers  through  the  whistling  winds  their  steady  flight ; " 

or  that  when  two  colonies  made  war  upon  each  other 


AN  IDYL   OF   THE   HONEY-BEE.  89 

they  issued  forth  from  their  hives  led  by  their  kings 
and  fought  in  the  air,  strewing  the  ground  with  the 
dead  and  dying  :  — 

"  Hard  hailstones  lie  not  thicker  on  the  plain, 
Nor  shaken  oaks  such  show'rs  of  acorns  rain." 

It  is  quite  certain  he  had  never  been  bee-hunting. 
If  he  had  we  should  have  had  a  fifth  Georgic.  Yet 
he  seems  to  have  known  that  bees  sometimes  escaped 
to  the  woods  :  — 

"Nor  bees  are  lodged  in  hives  alone,  but  found 
In  chambers  of  their  own  beneath  the  ground : 
Their  vaulted  roofs  are  hung  in  pumices, 
And  in  the  rotten  trunks  of  hollow  trees." 

Wild  honey  is  as  near  like  tame  as  wild  bees  are 
like  their  brothers  in  the  hive.  The  only  difference 
is  that  wild  honey  is  flavored  with  your  adventure, 
which  makes  it  a  little  more  delectable  than  the  do- 
mestic article. 


NATURE  AND   THE  POETS. 


NATURE  AND  THE  POETS. 

I  HAVE  said  on  a  former  occasion  that  "  the  true 
poet  knows  more  about  Nature  than  the  naturalist, 
because  he  carries  her  open  secrets  in  his  heart. 
Eckermann  could  instruct  Goethe  in  ornithology,  but 
could  not  Goethe  instruct  Eckermann  in  the  mean- 
ing and  mystery  of  the  bird  ?  "  But  the  poets  some- 
times rely  too  confidently  upon  their  supposed  intui- 
tive knowledge  of  nature  and  grow  careless  about 
the  accuracy  of  the  details  of  their  pictures.  I  am 
not  aware  that  this  was  ever  the  case  with  Goethe ; 
I  think  it  was  not,  for  as  a  rule  the  greater  the  poet, 
the  more  correct  and  truthful  will  be  his  specifica- 
tions. It  is  the  lesser  poets  who  trip  most  upon  their 
facts.  Thus  a  New  England  poet  speaks  of  "  pluck- 
ing the  apple  from  the  pine,"  as  if  the  pine-apple  grew 
upon  the  pine-tree.  A  "Western  poet  sings  of  the 
bluebird  in  a  strain  in  which  every  feature  and  char- 
acteristic of  the  bird  is  lost ;  not  one  trait  of  the  bird 
is  faithfully  set  down.  When  the  robin  and  the  swal- 
low come,  he  says,  the  bluebird  hies  him  to  some 
mossy  old  wood,  where,  amid  the  deep  seclusion  he 
pours  out  his  song. 


94         NATURE  AND  THE  POETS. 

In  a  poem  by  a  well-known  author  in  one  of  the 
popular  journals,  a  humming-bird's  nest  is  shown  the 
reader,  and  it  has  blue  eggs  in  it.  A  more  cautious 
poet  would  have  turned  to  Audubon  or  Wilson  before 
venturing  upon  such  a  statement.  But  then  it  was 
necessary  to  have  a  word  to  rhyme  with  "  view," 
and  what  could  be  easier  than  to  make  a  white  egg 
"  blue  "  ?  Again,  one  of  our  later  poets  has  evidently 
confounded  the  humming-bird  with  that  curious  par- 
ody upon  it,  the  hawk  or  sphynx  moth,  as  in  his 
poem  upon  the  subject  he  has  hit  off  exactly  the 
habits  of  the  moth,  or,  rather,  his  creature  seems  a 
cross  between  the  moth  and  the  bird,  as  it  has  the 
habits  of  the  one  and  the  plumage  of  the  other.  The 
time  to  see  the  humming-bird,  he  says,  is  after  sunset 
in  the  summer  gloaming ;  then  it  steals  forth  and 
hovers  over  the  flowers,  etc.  Now,  the  humming-bird 
is  eminently  a  creature  of  the  sun  and  of  the  broad 
open  day,  and  I  have  never  seen  it  after  sundown, 
while  the  moth  is  rarely  seen  except  at  twilight.  It 
is  much  smaller  and  less  brilliant  than  the  humming- 
bird; but  its  flight  and  motions  are  so  nearly  the 
same  that  a  poet  with  his  eye  in  a  fine  frenzy  rolling 
might  easily  mistake  one  for  the  other.  It  is  but  a 
small  slip  in  such  a  poet  as  poor  George  Arnold, 
when  he  makes  the  sweet-scented  honeysuckle  bloom 
for  the  bee,  for  surely  the  name  suggests  the  bee, 
though  in  fact  she  does  not  work  upon  it ;  but  what 
shall  we  say  of  the  Kansas  poet,  who,  in  his  published 
volume,  claims  both  the  yew  and  the  nightingale  foi 


NATURE  AND   THE  POETS.  95 

his  native  state  ?  Or  of  a  Massachusetts  poet,  who 
finds  the  snow-drop  and  the  early  primrose  bloom- 
ing along  his  native  streams,  with  the  orchis  and  the 
yellow  violet,  and  makes  the  blackbird  conspicuous 
among  New  England  songsters  ?  Our  ordinary  yew 
is  not  a  tree  at  all,  but  a  low  spreading  evergreen 
shrub  that  one  may  step  over,  and  as  for  the  nightin- 
gale, if  they  have  the  mocking-bird  in  Kansas,  they 
can  very  well  do  without  him.  We  have  several  va- 
rieties of  blackbirds,  it  is  true  ;  but  when  an  Amer- 
ican poet  speaks  in  a  general  way  of  the  blackbird 
piping  or  singing  in  a  tree,  as  he  would  speak  of  a 
robin  or  a  sparrow,  the  suggestion  or  reminiscence 
awakened  is  always  that  of  the  blackbird  of  English 
poetry. 

"  In  days  when  daisies  deck  the  ground, 

And  blackbirds  whistle  clear, 
With  honest  joy  our  hearts  will  bound 
To  see  the  coming  year  "  — 

sings  Burns.  I  suspect  that  the  English  reader  of 
even  some  of  Emerson's  and  Lowell's  poems  would 
infer  that  our  blackbird  was  identical  with  the  British 
species.  I  refer  to  these  lines  of  Emerson  :  — 

"  Where  arches  green  the  livelong  day 
Echo  the  blackbirds'  roundelay;" 

and  to  these  lines  from  Lowell's  "  Rosaline  " :  — 

"A  blackbird  whistling  overhead 
Thrilled  through  mv  brain;" 

«ind  again  these  from  "  The  Fountain  of  Youth  "  :  — 


96  NATURE   AND   THE  POETS. 

*"T  is  a  woodland  enchanted; 
By  no  sadder  spirit 
Than  blackbirds  and  thrushes 
That  whistle  to  cheer  it, 
All  day  in  the  brushes." 

The  blackbird  of  the  English  poets  is  like  oui 
robin  in  everything  except  color.  He  is  familiar 
hardy,  abundant,  thievish,  and  his  habits,  manners, 
and  song  recall  our  bird  to  the  life.  Our  own  na- 
tive blackbirds,  the  crow  blackbird,  the  rusty  grackle, 
the  cow-bird,  and  the  red-shouldered  starling,  are  not 
songsters,  even  in  the  latitude  allowable  to  poets ; 
neither  are  they  whistlers,  unless  we  credit  them  with 
a  "  split-whistle,"  as  Thoreau  does.  The  two  first 
named  have  a  sort  of  musical  cackle  and  gurgle  in 
spring  (as  at  times  both  our  crow  and  jay  have), 
which  is  very  pleasing,  and  to  which  Emerson  aptly 
refers  in  these  lines  from  "  May-Day  "  :  — 

"  The  blackbirds  make  the  maples  ring 
With  social  cheer  and  jubilee  "  — 

but  it  is  not  a  song.     The  note  of  the  starling  in  the 
trees  and  alders  along  the  creeks  and  marshes  is  bet- 
ter calculated  to  arrest  the  attention  of  the  casual 
observer ;  but  it  is  far  from  beiirg  a  song  or  a  whistle 
like  that  of  the  European  blackbird,  or  our  robin. 
Its  most  familiar  call  is  like  the  word  "bazique," 
"bazique"    but  it   has  a  wild   musical  note  which 
Emerson  has  embalmed  in  this  line  :  — 
"  The  red-wing  flutes  his  o-ka-lee." 
Here  Emerson  discriminates ;  there  is  no  mistaking 


NATURE   AND   THE   POETS.  97 

his  blackbird  this  time  for  the  European  species, 
though  it  is  true  there  is  nothing  fluty  or  flute-like 
in  the  red-wing's  voice.  The  flute  is  mellow,  while 
the  "  o-ka-lee "  of  the  starling  is  strong  and  sharply 
accented.  The  voice  of  the  thrushes  (and  our  robin 
and  the  European  blackbird  are  thrushes)  is  flute- 
like.  Hence  the  aptness  of  this  line  of  Tennyson  :  — 

"  The  mellow  ouzel  fluted  in  the  elm,"  — 

the  blackbird  being  the  ouzel,  or  ouzel-cock,  as 
Shakespeare  calls  him. 

In  the   line  which   precedes  this,  Tennyson   has 
stamped  the  cuckoo  :  — 

"  To  left  and  right, 
The  cuckoo  told  his  name  to  all  the  hills." 

The  cuckoo  is  a  bird  that  figures  largely  in  English 
poetry,  but  he  always  has  an  equivocal  look  in  Amer- 
ican verse,  unless  sharply  discriminated.  We  have  a 
cuckoo,  but  he  is  a  great  recluse,  and  I  am  sure  the 
poets  do  not  know  when  he  comes  or  goes,  while  to 
make  him  sing  familiarly  like  the  British  species,  as 
I  have  known  at  least  one  of  our  poets  to  do,  is  to 
come  very  wide  of  the  mark.  Our  bird  is  as  solitary 
and  joyless  as  the  mosf  veritable  anchorite.  He  con- 
tributes nothing  to  the  melody  or  gayety  of  the  sea- 
son. He  is  indeed  known  in  some  sections  as  the 
"  rain-crow  "  ;  but  I  presume  that  not  one  person  in 
ten  of  those  who  spend  their  lives  in  the  country  has 
ever  seen  or  heard  him.  He  is  like  the  showy  orchis, 
or  the  ladies'-slipper,  or  the  shooting-star  among 
7 


98  NATURE  AND   THE   POETS. 

plants,  —  a  stranger  to  all  but  the  few,  —  and  when 
an  American  poet  says  cuckoo,  he  must  say  it  with 
such  specifications  as  to  leave  no  doubt  what  cuckoo 
he  means,  as  Lowell  does,  in  his  "  Nightingale  in  the 
Study  " :  — 

"  And,  hark,  the  cuckoo,  weatherwise, 
Still  hiding,  farther  onward  wooes  you." 

In  like  manner  the  primrose  is  an  exotic  in  Amer- 
ican poetry,  to  say  nothing  of  the  snow-drop  and  the 
daisy.  Its  prominence  in  English  poetry  can  be 
understood  when  we  remember  that  the  plant  is  so 
abundant  in  England  as  to  be  almost  a  weed,  and 
that  it  comes  early  and  is  very  pretty.  Cowslip  and 
oxlip  are  familiar  names  of  varieties  of  the  same 
plant,  and  they  bear  so  close  a  resemblance  that  it 
is  hard  to  tell  them  apart.  Hence  Tennyson,  in 
«  The  Talking  Oak":  — 

"  As  cowslip  unto  oxlip  is, 
So  seems  she  to  the  boy." 

Our  familiar  primrose  is  the  evening  primrose,  —  a 
rank,  tall  weed  that  blooms  with  the  mullein  in  late 
summer.  Its  dmall,  yellow,  slightly  fragrant  blos- 
soms open  only  at  night,  but  remain  open  during  the 
next  day.  By  cowslip,  our  poets  and  writers  gener- 
ally mean  the  yellow  marsh  marigold,  which  belongs 
to  a  different  family  of  plants,  but  which,  as  a  spring 
token  and  a  pretty  flower,  is  a  very  good  substitute 
for  the  cowslip.  Our  real  cowslip,  the  shooting-star 
(Dodecatheon  meadia),  is  very  rare,  and  is  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  of  native  flowers.  I  believe  it  is  no* 


NATURE  AND   THE  POETS.  99 

found  north  of  Pennsylvania.  I  have  found  it  in  a 
single  locality  in  the  District  of  Columbia,  and  the 
day  is  memorable  upon  which  I  first  saw  its  cluster 
of  pink  flowers,  with  their  recurved  petals  cleaving; 
the  air.  I  do  not  know  that  it  has  ever  been  men- 
tioned in  poetry. 

Another  flower  which  I  suspect  our  poets  see- 
largely  through  the  medium  of  English  literature- 
and  invest  with  borrowed  charms,  is  the  violet.  The 
violet  is  a  much  more  winsome  and  poetic  flower  in 
England  than  it  is  in  this  country,  for  the  reason, 
that  it  comes  very  early  and  is  sweet-scented ;  our 
common  violet  is  not  among  the  earliest  flowers,  and 
it  is  odorless.  It  affects  sunny  slopes,  like  the  English 
flower ;  yet  Shakespeare  never  could  have  made  the 
allusion  to  it  which  he  makes  to  his  own  species  in 
these  lines :  — 

"  That  strain  again  !  it  had  a  dying  fall  : 
Oh  !  it  came  o'er  my  ear  like  the  sweet  south 
That  breathes  upon  a  bank  of  violets, 
Stealing  and  giving  odor," 

pr  lauded  it  as 

"  Sweeter  than  the  lids  of  Juno's  eyes, 
Or  Cytherea's  breath." 

Our  best  known  sweet-scented  violet  is  a  small, 
white,  lilac-veined  species  (not  yellow,  as  Bryant  has 
it  in  his  poem),  that  is  common  in  wet  out-of-the-way 
places.  Our  common  blue  violet  —  the  only  species 
that  is  found  abundantly  everywhere  in  the  North  — 
Mooms  in  May,  and  makes  bright  many  a  grassy 


100  NATURE   AND   THE   POETS. 

meadow  slope  and  sunny  nook.  Yet,  for  all  that,  it 
does  not  awaken  the  emotion  in  one  that  the  earlier 
and  more  delicate  spring  flowers  do ;  the  hepatica, 
say,  with  its  shy  wood  habits,  its  pure,  infantile  ex- 
pression, and  at  times  its  delicate  perfume ;  or  the 
houstonia,  —  "  innocence,"  —  flecking  or  streaking  the 
cold  spring  earth  with  a  milky  way  of  minute  stars ; 
or  the  trailing  arbutus,  sweeter  scented  than  the  Eng- 
lish violet,  and  outvying  in  tints  Cytherea's  or  any 
other  blooming  goddess's  cheek.  Yet  these  flowers 
have  no  classical  associations,  and  are,  consequently, 
far  less  often  upon  the  lips  of  our  poets  than  the 
violet. 

To  return  to  birds,  another  dangerous  one  for  the 
American  poet  is  the  lark,  and  our  singers  generally 
are  very  shy  of  him.  The  term  has  been  applied 
very  loosely  in  this  country  to  both  the  meadow-lark 
and  the  bobolink,  yet  it  is  pretty  generally  under- 
stood now  that  we  have  no  genuine  skylark  east  of 
the  Mississippi.  Hence,  I  am  curious  to  know  what 
bird  Bayard  Taylor  refers  to,  when  he  speaks  -in  his 
"  Spring  Pastoral "  of 

"  Larks  responding  aloft  to  the  mellow  flute  of  the  bluebird." 

Our  so-called  meadow-lark  is  no  lark  at  all,  but  a 
starling,  and  the  tit-lark  and  shore-lark  breed  and 
pass  the  summer  far  to  the  north,  and  are  never 
heard  in  song  in  the  United  States. 

The  poets  are  entitled  to  a  pretty  free  range,  but 
they  must  be  accurate  when  they  particularize.  We 


NATURE  AND  ;tHE*  POETS-.  101- 


expect  them  to  see  the  fact  through  their  imagination, 
but  it  must  still  remain  a  fact ;  the  medium  must  not 
distort  it  into  a  lie.  When  they  name  a  flower  or 
a  tree  or  a  bird,  whatever  halo  of  the  ideal  they 
throw  around  it,  it  must  not  be  made  to  belie  the 
botany  or  the  natural  history.  I  doubt  if  you  can 
catch  Shakespeare  transgressing  the  law  in  this 
respect,  except  where  he  followed  the  superstition, 
and  the  imperfect  knowledge  of  his  time,  as  in  his 
treatment  of  the  honey-bee.  His  allusions  to  nature 
are  always  incidental  to  his  main  purpose,  but  they 
reveal  a  careful  and  loving  observer.  For  instance, 
how  are  fact  and  poetry  wedded  in  this  passage, 
put  into  the  mouth  of  Banquo  ! 

"  This  guest  of  summer, 
The  temple-haunting  martlet,  does  approve, 
By  his  loved  mansionry,  that  the  heaven's  breath 
Smells  -wooingly  here;  no  jutty,  frieze, 
Buttress,  nor  coign  of  vantage,  but  this  bird 
Hath  made  his  pendent  bed  and  procreant  cradle; 
Where  they  most  breed  and  haunt,  I  have  observed, 
The  air  is  delicate." 

Nature  is  of  course  universal,  but  in  the  same 
sense  is  she  local  and  particular  —  cuts  every  suit  to 
fit  the  wearer,  gives  every  land  an  earth  and  sky  of 
its  own,  and  a  flora  and  fauna  to  match.  The  poets 
arid  their  readers  delight,  in  local  touches.  We  have 
both  the  hare  and  the  rabbit  in  America,  but  this 
Jine  from  Thomson's  description  of  a  summer  morn- 
rog,— 
And  from  the  bladed  field  the  fearful  hare  limps  awkward/1  - 


102  -NATURE  AND  THE  POETS. 

or  this  from  Beattie, — 

"Through  rustling  corn  the  hare  astonished  sprang,"  — 
would  not  apply  with  the  same  force  in  New  Eng 
land,  because  our  hare  is  never  found  in  the  fields, 
but  in  dense,  remote  woods.     In  England  both  hares 
and  rabbits  abound  to  such  an  extent  that  in  places 
the  fields  and  meadows   swarm  with  them,  and  the 
ground  is  undermined  by  their  burrows,  till  they  be- 
come a  serious  pest  to  the  farmer,  and  are  trapped  in 
vast  numbers.    The  same  remark  applies  to  this  from 
Tennyson :  — 

"  From  the  woods 
Came  voices  of  the  well-contented  doves." 

Doves  and  wood-pigeons  are  almost  as  abundant  in 
England  as  hares  and  rabbits,  and  are  also  a  seri- 
ous annoyance  to  the  farmer,  while  in  this  country 
the  dove  and  pigeon  are  much  less  marked  and  per- 
manent features  in  our  rural  scenery,  —  less  perma- 
nent, except  in  the  case  of  the  mourning  dove,  which 
is  found  here  and  there  the  season  through ;  and  less 
marked,  except  when  the  hordes  of  the  passenger- 
pigeon  once  in  a  decade  or  two  invade  the  land, 
rarely  tarrying  longer  than  the  bands  of  a  foraging 
army.  I  hardly  know  what  Trowbridge  means  by  the 
"  wood-pigeon  "  in  his  midsummer  poem,  for,  strictly 
speaking,  the  wood-pigeon  is  a  European  bird,  and  a 
very  common  one  in  England.  But  let  me  say  here, 
however,  that  Trowbridge,  as  a  rule,  keeps  very  close 
to  the  natural  history  of  his  own  country  when  he 
has  occasion  to  draw  material  from  this  source,  and 


NATURE  AND   THE  POETS.  103 

to  American  nature  generally.  You  will  find  in  his 
poems  the  pewee,  the  bluebird,  the  oriole,  the  robin, 
the  grouse,  the  king-fisher,  the  chipmunk,  the  mink, 
the  bobolink,  the  wood-thrush,  etc.,  all  in  their  proper 
places.  There  are  few  bird-poems  that  combine  so 
much  good  poetry  and  good  natural  history  as  his 
"Pewee."  Here  we  have  a  glimpse  of  the  cat- 
bird:— 

"  In  the  alders,  dank  with  noon-day  dews, 
The  restless  cat-bird  darts  and  mews ; " 

here,  of  the  cliff-swallow :  — 

"In  the  autumn, when  the  hollows 
All  are  filled  with  flying  leaves 
And  the  colonies  of  swallows 

Quit  the  quaintly  stuccoed  eaves." 

Only  the  dates  are  not  quite  right.  The  swallows 
leave  their  nests  in  August,  which  is  nearly  two 
months  before  the  leaves  fall.  The  poet  is  also  a 
little  unfaithful  to  the  lore  of  his  boyhood  when  he 
says 

"  The  partridge  beats  his  throbbing  drum  " 

in  midsummer.  As  a  rule,  the  partridge  does  not 
drum  later  than  June,  except  fitfully  during  the  In- 
dian summer,  while  April  and  May  are  his  favorite 
months.  And  let  me  say  here  for  the  benefit  of  the 
j,oets  who  do  not  go  to  the  woods,  that  the  partridge 
does  not  always  drum  upon  a  log;  he  frequently 
drums  upon  a  rock  or  a  stone  wall,  if  a  suitable  log 
6e  not  handy,  and  no  ear  can  detect  the  difference. 
His  drum  is  really  his  own  proud  breast  and  beneath 


104  NATURE  AND   THE  POETS. 

his  small  hollow  wings  gives  forth  the  same  low,  mel- 
low thunder  from  a  rock  as  from  a  log.  Bryant  has 
recognized  this  fact  in  one  of  his  poems. 

Our  poets  are  quite  apt  to  get  ahead  or  behind  the 
season  with  their  flowers  and  birds.  It  is  not  often 
that  we  catch  such  a  poet  as  Emerson  napping.  He 
knows  nature,  and  he  knows  the  New  England  fields 
and  woods  as  few  poets  do.  One  may  study  our  flora 
and  fauna  in  his  pages.  He  puts  in  the  moose  and 
the  "  surly  bear,"  and  makes  the  latter  rhyme  with 
"  wood-pecker  " :  — 

"  He  saw  beneath  dim  aisles,  in  odorous  beds, 
The  slight  of  Linnaea  hang  its  twin-born  heads. 

"  He  heard,  when  in  the  grove,  at  intervals, 
With  sudden  roar  the  aged  pine-tree  falls,  — 
One  crash,  the  death-hymn  of  the  perfect  tree, 
Declares  the  close  of  its  green  century." 

"They  led  me  through  the  thicket  damp, 

Through  brake  and  fern,  the  beavers'  camp." 

"He  saw  the  partridge  drum  in  the  woods; 
He  heard  the  woodcock's  evening  hymn; 
He  found  the  tawnjr  thrush's  broods; 
And  the  shy  hawk  did  wait  'for  him." 

His  "  Titmouse"  is  studied  in  our  winter  woods,  and 
his  "  Humble-Bee "  in  our  summer  fields.  He  has 
seen  farther  into  the  pine-tree  than  any  other  poet ; 
bis  "May-Day"  is  full  of  our  spring  sounds  and 
tokens;  he  knows  the  "punctual  birds,"  and  the 
'*  herbs  and  simples  of  the  wood : "  — 


NATURE  AND   THE  POETS.  105 

"Rue,  cinque-foil,  gill,  vervain,  and  agrimony, 
Blue-vetch,  and  trilliuin,  hawk-weed,  sassafras, 
Milk-weeds  and  murky  brakes,  quaint  pipes  and  sun-dew." 

Here  is  a  characteristic  touch  :  — 

"•A  woodland  walk, 

A  quest  of  river-grapes,  a  mocking  thrush, 
A  wild  rose,  a  rock-loving  columbine, 
Salve  my  worst  wounds." 

That  "  rock-loving  columbine  "  is  better  than  Bry- 
ant's "  columbines,  in  purple  dressed,"  as  our  flower 
is  not  purple,  but  yellow  and  scarlet.  Yet  Bryant 
set  the  example  to  the  poets  that  have  succeeded 
him,  of  closely  studying  Nature  as  she  appears  under 
our  own  skies. 

I  yield  to  none  in  my  admiration  of  the  sweet- 
ness and  simplicity  of  his  poems  of  nature,  and  in 
general  of  their  correctness  of  observation.  They 
are  tender  and  heartfelt,  and  they  touch  chords  that 
no  other  poet  since  Wordsworth  has  touched  with 
so  firm  a  hand.  Yet  he  was  not  always  an  infallible 
observer ;  he  sometimes  tripped  upon  his  facts,  and 
at  other  times  he  deliberately  moulded  them,  adding 
to,  or  cutting  off,  to  suit  the  purposes  of  his  verse. 
I  will  cite  here  two  instances  in  which  his  natural 
history  is  at  fault.  In  his  poem  on  the  bobolink  he 
makes  the  parent  birds  feed  their  young  with  "  seeds," 
whereas,  in  fact,  the  young  are  fed  exclusively  upon 
insects  and  worms.  The  bobolink  is  an  insectivo- 
rous bird  in  the  North,  or  until  its  brood  has  flown, 
and  a  granivorous  bird  in  the  South. 


106  NATURE   AND   THE   POETS. 

Iii  his  "Evening  Reveiy  "  occur  these  lines:— - 

"  The  mother-bird  hath  broken  for  her  brood 
Their  prison  shells,  or  shoved  them  from  the  nest, 
Plumed  for  their  earliest  flight." 

It  is  not  a  fact  that  the  mother-bird  aids  her  off- 
spring in  escaping  from  the  shell.  The  young  of 
all  birds  are  armed  with  a  small  temporary  horn  01 
protuberance  upon  the  upper  mandible,  and  they  are 
so  placed  in  the  shell  that  this  point  is  iti  immediate 
contact  with  its  inner  surface ;  as  soon  as  they  are 
fully  developed  and  begin  to  struggle  to  free  them- 
selves, the  horny  growth  "pips"  the  shell.  Their 
efforts  then  continue  till  their  prison  walls  are  com- 
pletely sundered,  and  the  bird  is  free.  This  process 
is  rendered  the  more  easy  by  the  fact  that  toward 
the  last  the  shell  becomes  very  rotten  ;  the  acids  that 
are  generated  by  the  growing  chick  eat  it  and  make 
it  brittle,  so  that  one  can  hardly  touch  a  fully  incu- 
bated bird's  egg  without  breaking  it.  To  help  the 
young  bird  forth  would  insure  its  speedy  death.  It 
is  not  true,  either,  that  the  parent  shoves  its  young 
from  the  nest  when  they  are  fully  fledged,  except, 
possibly,  in  the  case  of  some  of  the  swallows  and  of 
the  eagle.  The  young  of  all  our  more  common  birds 
leave  the  nest  of  their  own  motion,  stimulated,  prob- 
ably, by  the  calls  of  the  parents,  and  in  some  cases 
by  the  withholding  of  food  for  a  longer  period  than 
usual. 

As  an  instance  where  Bryant  warps  the  facts  to 
luit  his  purpose,  take  his  poems  of  the  "  Yellow  Vi» 


NATURE  AND   THE  POETS.  107 

olet"   and  "The  Fringed   Gentian."     Of   this  last 

flower  he  says  :  — 

"  Thou  waitest  late  and  com'st  alone, 
When  woods  are  bare  and  birds  are  flown, 
And  frosts  and  shortening  days  portend 
The  aged  year  is  near  his  end." 

The  fringed  gentian  belongs  to  September,  and,  when 
the  severer  frosts  keep  away,  it  runs  over  into  Octo- 
ber. But  it  does  not  come  alone  and  the  woods  are 
not  bare.  The  closed  gentian  comes  at  the  same 
time,  and  the  blue  and  purple  asters  are  in  all  their 
glory.  Golden-rod,  turtle-head  (Chelone),  and  other 
fall  flowers  also  abound.  When  the  woods  are  bare, 
which  does  not  occur  in  New  England  till  in  or  near 
November,  the  fringed  gentian  has  long  been  dead. 
It  is  in  fact  killed  by  the  first  considerable  frost.  No, 
if  one  were  to  go  botanizing  and  take  Bryant's  poem 
for  a  guide  he  would  not  bring  home  any  fringed 
gentians  with  him.  The  only  flower  he  would  find 
would  be  the  witch-hazel.  Yet  I  never  see  this  gen- 
tian without  thinking  of  Bryant's  poem,  and  feeling 
that  he  has  brought  it  immensely  nearer  to  us. 

Bryant's  poem  of  the  "  Yellow  Violet "  has  all  his 
accustomed  simplicity  and  pensiveness,  but  his  love 
for  the  flower  carries  him  a  little  beyond  the  facts ; 
he  makes  it  sweet  scented,  — 

u  Thy  faint  perfume 
Alone  is  in  the  virgin  air:" 

and  he  makes  it  the  first  flower  of  spring.  I  have 
never  been  able  to  detect  any  perfume  in  the  yel- 
low species  (Viola  rolundifolia).  This  honor  be- 


108  NATURE   AND   THE  POETS. 

longs  alone  to  our  two  white  violets,  Viola  blanda 
and  Viola  Canadensis. 

Neither  is  it  quite  true  that 

"  Of  all  her  train,  the  hands  of  Spring 
First  plant  thee  in  the  watery  mould." 

Now  it  is  an  interesting  point,  which  really  is  our 
first  spring  flower.  Which  comes  second  or  third  is 
of  less  consequence,  but  which  everywhere  and  in  all 
seasons  comes  first ;  arid  in  such  a  case  the  poet  must 
not  place  the  honor  where  it  does  not  belong.  I  have 
no  hesitation  in  saying  that  throughout  the  Middle 
and  New  England  States,  the  hepatica  is  the  first 
spring  flower.1  It  is  some  days  ahead  of  all  others. 
The  yellow  violet  belongs  only  to  the  more  northern 
sections,  to  high,  cold,  beechen  woods,  where  the  poet 
rightly  places  it,  but  in  these  localities  if  you  go 
to  the  spring  woods  every  day  you  will  gather  the 
hepatica  first.  I  have  also  found  the  claytonia  and 
the  colt's-foot  first.  In  a  poem  called  "  The  Twenty- 
Seventh  of  March  "  Bryant  places  both  the  hepatica 
and  the  arbutus  before  it :  — 

"  Within  the  woods 

Tufts  of  ground-laurel,  creeping  underneath 
The  leaves  of  the  last  -summer,  send  their  sweets 
Upon  the  chilly  air,  and  by  the  oak, 
The  squirrel  cups,  a  graceful  company, 
Hide  in  their  bells,  a  soft  aerial  blue  "  -  - 

ground-laurel  being  a  local  name  for  trailing  arbutus, 
called  also  May-flower,  and  squirrel-cups  for  hepatica, 
or  liver-leaf.  But  the  yellow  violet  may  rightly  dis» 
oute  for  the  second  place. 

1  Excepting,  of  course,  the  skunk-cabbage. 


NATURE   AND   THE  POETS.  109 

In  "  The  Song  of  the  Sower  "  our  poet  covers  up 
part  of  the  truth  with  the  grain.  The  point  and 
moral  of  the  song  he  puts  in  the  statement,  that  the 
wheat  sown  in  the  fall  lies  in  the  ground  till  spring 
before  it  germinates;  when,  in  fact,  it  sprouts  and 
grows  and  covers  the  ground  with  "  emerald  blades " 
in  the  fall:  — 

"  Fling  wide  the  generous  grain ;  we  fling 
O'er  the  dark  mould  the  green  of  spring. 
For  thick  the  emerald  blades  shall  grow, 
When  first  the  March  winds  melt  the  snoir, 
And  to  the  sleeping  flowers,  below, 
The  early  bluebirds  sing. 


Brethren,  the  sower's  task  is  done. 

The  seed  is  in  its  winter  bed. 

JS"ow  let  the  dark-brown  mould  be  spread, 

To  hide  it  from  the  sun, 
And  leave  it  to  the  kindly  care 
Of  the  still  earth  and  brooding  air, 
As  when  the  mother,  from  her  breast, 
Lays  the  hushed  babe  apart  to  rest, 
And  shades  its  eyes  and  waits  to  see 
How  sweet  its  waking  smile  will  be. 
The  tempest  now  may  smite,  the  sleet 
All  night  on  the  drowned  furrow  beat, 
And  winds  that,  from  the  cloudy  hold 
Of  winter,  breathe  the  bitter  cold, 
Stiffen  to  stone  the  mellow  mould, 

Yet  safe  shall  lie  the  wheat ; 
Till,  out  of  heaven's  unmeasured  blue, 

Shall  walk  agair  the  genial  year, 
To  wake  with  warmth  and  nurse  with  dew 

The  germs  we  lay  to  slumber  here." 

Of  course  the  poet  was  not  writing  an  agricultural 


110  NATURE  AND  THE  POETS. 

essay,  yet  one  does  not  like  to  feel  that  he  was 
obliged  to  ignore  or  sacrifice  any  part  of  the  truth  to 
build  up  his  verse.  One  likes  to  see  him  keep  within 
the  fact  without  being  conscious  of  it  or  hampered 
by  it,  as  he  does  in  "  The  Planting  of  the  Apple- 
tree,"  or  in  the  "  Lines  to  a  Water-fowl." 

But  there  are  glimpses  of  American  scenery  and 
climate  in  Bryant  that  are  unmistakable,  as  in  these 
lines  from  "  Midsummer  " :  — 

"Look  forth  upon  the  earth  —  her  thousand  plants 
Are  smitten  ;  even  the  dark,  sun-lovLng  maize 
Faints  in  the  field  beneath  the  torrid  blaze ; 
The  herd  beside  the  shaded  fountain  pants; 
For  life  is  driven  from  all  the  landscape  brown; 
.The  bird  has  sought  his  tree,  the  snake  his  den, 
The  trout  floats  dead  in  the  hot  stream,  and  men 
Drop  by  the  sunstroke  in  the  populous  town." 

Here  is  a  touch  of  our  "  heated  term  "  when  the  dog- 
star  is  abroad  and  the  weather  runs  mad.  I  regret 
the  "trout  floating  dead  in  the  hot  stream,"  because, 
if  such  a  thing  ever  has  occurred  it  is  entirely  excep- 
tional. The  trout  in  such  weather  seek  the  deep 
water  and  the  spring  holes,  and  hide  beneath  rocks 
and  willow  banks.  The  following  lines  would  be 
impossible  in  an  English  poem :  — 

"The  snow-bird  twittered  on  the  beechen  bough, 
And  'neath  the  hemlock,  whose  thick  branches  bent 
Beneath  its  bright,  cold  burden,  and  kept  dry 
A  circle,  on  the  earth,  of  withered  leaves, 
The  partridge  found  a  shelter." 

Both  Bryant  and  Longfellow  put  their  spring  blue- 
bird in  the  elm,  which  is  a  much  better  place  for  the 


,  - 

NATURE  AND   THE  Po5fcBgg£/£C 

oriole  —  the  elm-loving  oriole.  The  bluebird  pre- 
fers a  humbler  perch.  Lowell  puts  him  upon  a  post 
in  the  fence,  which  is  a  characteristic  attitude :  — 

"The  bluebird,  shifting  his  light  load  of  song, 
From  post  to  post  along  the  cheerless  fence." 

Emerson  calls  him  "April's  bird,"  and  makes  him 
"  fly  before  from  tree  to  tree,"  which  is  also  good. 
But  the  bluebird  is  not  strictly  a  songster  in  the 
sense  in  which  the  sparrow  or  the  indigo-bird,  or  the 
English  robin-red-breast,  is;  nor  do  Bryant's  lines 
hit  the  mark :  — 

"  The  bluebird  chants,  from  the  elm's  long  branches, 
A  hymn  to  welcome  the  budding  year." 

Lowell  again  is  nearer  the  truth  when  he  speaks  of 
his  "whiff  of  song."  All  his  notes  are  call-notes, 
and  are  addressed  directly  to  his  mate.  The  song- 
birds take  up  a  position  and  lift  up  their  voices  and 
sing.  It  is  a  deliberate  musical  performance,  as  much 
so  as  that  of  Nilsson  or  Patti.  The  bluebird,  how- 
ever, never  strikes  an  attitude  and  sings  for  the  mere 
song's  sake.  But  the  poets  are  perhaps  to  be  allowed 
this  latitude,  only  their  pages  lose  rather  than  gain  by 
it.  Nothing  is  so  welcome  in  this  field  as  characteris- 
tic touches,  a  word  or  a  phrase  that  fits  this  case  and 
no  other.  If  the  bluebird  chants  a  hymn,  what  does 
the  wood-thrush  do  ?  Yet  the  bluebird's  note  is  more 
pleasing  than  most  bird-songs;  if  it  could  be  repro- 
duced in  color,  it  would  be  the  hue  of  the  purest  sky. 
Longfellow  makes  the  swallow  sing  \  — 
"  The  darting  swallows  soar  and  sing ; "  — 


112        NATURE  AND  THE  POETS. 

which  would  leave  him  no  room  to  describe  the  lark, 
if  the  lark  had  been  about.  Bryant  comes  nearer  the 
mark  this  time :  — 

"  There  are  notes  of  joy  from  the  hang-bird  and  wren, 
And  the  gossip  of  swallows  through  all  the  sky ; " 

BO  does  Tennyson  when  he  makes  his  swallow 
"  Cheep  and  twitter  twenty  million  loves ;  " 

also  Lowell  again  in  this  line :  — 

"  The  thin-winged  swallow  skating  on  the  air." 

and  Virgil :  — 

"  Swallows  twitter  on  the  chimney  tops." 

Longfellow  is  perhaps  less  close  and  exact  in  his 
dealings  with  nature  than  any  of  his  compeers,  al- 
though he  has  written  some  fine  naturalistic  poems, 
as  his  "  Rain  in  Summer,"  and  others.  When  his 
fancy  is  taken,  he  does  not  always  stop  to  ask,  Is  this 
BO?  Is  this  true?  as  when  he  applies  the  Spanish 
proverb,  "  There  are  no  birds  in  last  year's  nests," 
to  the  nests  beneath  the  eaves ;  for  these  are  just  the 
last  year's  nests  that  do  contain  birds  in  May.  The 
cliff-swallow  and  the  barn-swallow  always  reoccupy 
their  old  nests,  when  they  are  iound  intact ;  so  do 
some  other  birds.  Again,  the  hawthorn,  or  white- 
thorn, field-fares,  belong  to  English  poetry  more  than 
to  American.  The  ash  in  autumn  is  not  deep  crim- 
soned, but  a  purplish  brown.  "  The  ash  her  purple 
drops  forgivingly,"  says  Lowell  in  his  "  Indian-Sum- 
mer Reverie."  Flax  is  not  golden,  lilacs  are  purple 
or  white  and  not  flame-colored,  and  it  is  against  the 


NATURE   AND   THE   POETS.  113 

law  to  go  trouting  in  November.  The  pelican  is  not 
a  wader  any  more  than  a  goose  or  a  duck  is,  and  the 
golden  robin  or  oriole  is  not  a  bird  of  autumn.  This 
stanza  from  "The  Skeleton  in  Armor"  is  a  strik- 
ing one  :  — 

"  As  with  his  wings  aslant, 
Sails  the  fierce  cormorant, 
Seeking  some  rocky  haunt, 

With  his  prey  laden, 
So  toward  the  open  main, 
Beating  to  sea  again, 
Through  the  wild  hurricane, 
Bore  I  the  maiden." 

But  unfortunately  the  cormorant  never  does  anything 
of  the  kind ;  it  is  not  a  bird  of  prey :  it  is  web- 
footed,  a  rapid  swimmer  and  diver,  and  lives  upon 
fish,  which,  it  usually  swallows  as  it  catches  them. 
Virgil  is  nearer  to  fact  when  he  says :  — 

"  When  crying  cormorants  forsake  the  sea  . 
And,  stretching  to  the  covert,  wing  their  way." 

But  cormorant  with  Longfellow  may  stand  for  any 
of  the  large  rapacious  birds,  as  the  eagle  or  the  con- 
dor. True,  and  yet  the  picture  is  purely  a  fanciful 
one,  as  no  bird  of  prey  sails  with  his  burden ;  on  the 
contrary  he  flaps  heavily  and  laboriously,  because  he 
is  always  obliged  to  mount.  The  stress  of  the  rhyme 
and  metre  are  of  course  in  this  case  very  great,  and  it 
is  they,  doubtless,  that  drove  the  poet  into  this  false 
picture  of  a  bird  of  prey  laden  with  his  quarry.  It 
*s  an  ungracious  task,  however,  to  cross-question  the 
gentle  Muse  of  Longfellow  in  this  manner.  He  is  a 
8 


114  NATURE   AND    THE   POETS. 

true  poet  if  there  ever  was  one,  and  the  slips  I  point 
out  are  only  like  an  obscure  feather  or  two  in  the 
dove  carelessly  preened.  The  burnished  plumage  and 
the  bright  hues  hide  them  unless  we  look  sharply. 

Whittier  gets  closer  to  the  bone  of  the  New  Eng- 
land nature.  He  comes  from  the  farm,  and  his  mem- 
ory is  stored  with  boyhood's  wild  and  curious  lore, 
with 

"Knowledge  never  learned  of  schools, 

Of  the  wild  bee's  morning  chase, 

Of  the  wild  flower's  time  and  place, 

Flight  of  fowl  and  habitude 

Of  the  tenants  of  the  wood; 

How  the  tortoise  bears  his  shell, 

How  the  woodchuck  digs  his  cell 

And  the  ground-mole  sinks  his  well ; 

How  the  robin  feeds  her  young; 

How  the  oriole's  nest  is  hung; 

Where  the  whitest  lilies  blow, 

Where  the  freshest  berries  grow, 

Where  the  ground-nut  trails  its  vine, 

Where  the  wood-grape's  clusters  shine ; 

Of  the  black  wasp's  cunning  way, 

Mason  of  his  walls  of  clay, 

And  the  architectural  plans 

Of  gray  hornet  artisans !  " 

The  poet  is  not  as  exact  as  usual  when  he  applies 
the  epithet  "  painted  "  to  the  autumn  beeches,  as  the 
foliage  of  the  beech  is  the  least  painty  of  all  our 
trees  ;  nor  when  he  speaks  of 

•'  Wind  flower  and  violet,  amber  and  white," 

as  neither  of  the  flowers  named  is  amber  colored. 
From  "  A  Dream  of  Summer  "  the  reader  might  in 


NATURE  AND   THE  POETS.  115 

fer  that  the  fox  shut  up  house  in  the  winter  like  the 
musk-rat :  — 

"  The  fox  his  hill-side  cell  forsakes, 

The  musk-rat  leaves  his  nook, 
The  bluebird  in  the  meadow  brakes 
Is  singing  with  the  brook." 

The  only  one  of  these  incidents  that  is  characteristic 
of  a  January  thaw  in  the  latitude  of  New  England, 
is  the  appearance  of  the  musk  rat.  The  fox  is  never 
in  his  cell  in  winter,  except  he  is  driven  there  by  the 
hound,  or  by  soft  or  wet  weather,  and  the  bluebird 
does  not  sing  in  the  brakes  at  any  time  of  the  year. 
A  severe  stress  of  weather  will  drive  the  foxes  off 
the  mountains,  into  the  low,  sheltered  woods  and 
fields,  and  a  thaw  will  send  them  back  again.  In  the 
winter  the  fox  sleeps  during  the  day  upon  a  rock  or 
stone  wall,  or  upon  a  snow  bank,  where  he  can  com- 
mand all  the  approaches,  or  else  prowls  stealthily 
through  the  woods. 

But  there  is  seldom  a  false  note  in  any  of  Whit- 
tier's  descriptions  of  rural  sights  'and  sounds.  What 
a  characteristic  touch  is  that  in  one  of  his  "  Mount- 
ain Pictures"  :  — 

"  The  pasture  bars  that  clattered  as  they  fell." 

It  is  the  only  strictly  native,  original,  and  typical 
sound  he  reports  on  that  occasion.  The  bleating  of 
sheep,  the  barking  of  dogs,  the  lowing  of  cattle,  the 
splash  of  the  bucket  in  the  well,  "  the  pastoral  cur- 
few of  the  cow-bell,"  etc.,  are  sounds  we  have  heard 
before  in  poetry,  but  that  clatter  of  the  pasture-bars 


116  NATURE  AND   THE  POETS. 

is  American  ;  one  can  almost  see  the  waiting,  ru- 
minating cows  slowly  stir  at  the  signal,  and  start  for 
home  in  anticipation  of  the  summons.  Every  sum- 
mer day,  as  the  sun  is  shading  the  hills,  the  clatter 
of  those  pasture-bars  is  heard  throughout  the  length 
and  breadth  of  the  land. 

"  Snow-Bound  "  is  the  most  faithful  picture  of  our 
Northern  winter  that  has  yet  been  put  into  poetry. 
What  an  exact  description  is  this  of  the  morning 
after  the  storm  :  — 

"  We  looked  upon  a  world  unknown, 
On  nothing  we  could  call  our  own. 
Around  the  glistening  wonder  bent 
The  blue  walls  of  the  firmament, 
No  cloud  above,  no  earth  below,  — 
A  universe  of  sky  and  snow." 

In  his  little  poem  on  the  May-flower,  Mr.  Sted- 
man  catches  and  puts  in  a  single  line  a  feature  of  our 
landscape  in  spring  that  I  have  never  before  seen 
alluded  to  in  poetry.  I  refer  to  the  second  line  of 
this  stanza :  — 

"  Fresh  blows  the  breeze  through  hemlock  trees, 

The  fields  are  edged  with  green  below, 
And  naught  but  youth,  and  hope,  and  love 
We  know  or  care  to  know." 

It  is  characteristic  of  our  Northern  and  New  Eng- 
land fields  that  they  are  "  edged  with  green "  in 
spring  long  before  the  emerald  tint  has  entirely  over- 
spread them.  Along  the  fences,  especially  along  the 
stone  walls,  the  grass  starts  early  ;  the  land  is  fattel 
there  from  the  deeper  snows  and  from  other  causes 


NATURE  AND  THE  POETS.        117 

.he  fence  absorbs  the  heat,  and  shelters  the  ground 
from  the  winds,  and  the  sward  quickly  responds  to 
the  touch  of  the  spring  sun. 

Stedman's  poem  is  worthy  of  his  theme,  and  is  the 
only  one  I  recall  by  any  of  our  well-known  poets 
upon  the  much  loved  May-flower  or  arbutus.  There 
is  a  little  poem  upon  this  subject  by  an  unknown  au- 
thor that  also  has  the  right  flavor.  I  recall  but  one 
stanza  :  — 

"Oft  have  I  walked  these  woodland  ways, 

Without  the  blest  foreknowing, 
.That  underneath  the  withered  leaves 

The  fairest  flowers  were  blowing." 

Nature's  strong  and  striking  effects  are  best  rendered 
by  closest  fidelity  to  her.  Listen  and  look  intently, 
and  catch  the,  exact  effect  as  ^nearly  as  you  can.  It 
seems  as  if  Lowell  had  done  this  more  than  most  of 
his  brother  poets.  In  reading  his  poems,  one  wishes 
for  a  little  more  of  the  poetic  unction  (I  refer,  of 
course,  to  his  serious  poems ;  his  humorous  ones  are 
just  what  they  should  be),  yet  the  student  of  nature 
will  find  many  close-fitting  phrases  and  keen  obser- 
vations in  his  pages,  and  lines  that  are  exactly,  and 
at  the  same  time  poetically,  descriptive.  He  is  the 
only  writer  I  know  of  who  has  noticed  the  fact  that 
the  roots  of  trees  do  not  look  supple  and  muscular 
like  their  boughs,  but  have  a  stiffened,  congealed 
'ook,  as  of  a  liquid  hardened. 

'     **  Their  roots,  like  molten-metal  cooled  in  flowing, 
Stiffened  in  coils  and  runnels  down  the  bank." 


118  NATURE  AND   THE  POETS. 

This  is  exactly  the  appearance  the  roots  of  most 
trees,  when  uncovered,  present ;  they  flow  out  from 
the  trunk  like  diminishing  streams  of  liquid  metal, 
taking  the  form  of  whatever  they  come  in  contact 
with,  parting  around  a  stone  and  uniting  again  be- 
yond it,  and  pushing  their  way  along  with  many  a 
pause  and  devious  turn.  One  principal  office  of  the 
roots  of  a  tree  is  to  gripe,  to  hold  fast  the  earth  ; 
hence  they  feel  for  and  lay  hold  of  every  inequality 
of  surface  ;  they  will  fit  themselves  to  the  top  of  a 
comparatively  smooth  rock,  so  as  to  adhere  amaz- 
ingly, and  flow  into  the  seams  and  crevices  like  metal 
into  a  mould. 

Lowell  is  singularly  true  to  the  natural  history  of 
his  own  county.  In  his  "  Indian-Summer  Reverie  " 
we  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  hen-hawk,  silently  sailing 
overhead 

"With  watchful,  measuring  eye," 
the  robin  feeding  on  cedar  berries,  and 

"The  squirrel,  on  the  shingly  shag-bark's  bough." 

I  do  not  remember  to  have  met  the  "  shag-bark  "  in 
poetry  before,  or  that  gray  lichen-covered  stone  wall 
which  occurs  farther  along  in  the  same  poem,  and 
which  is  so  characteristic  of  the  older  farms  of  New 
York  and  New  England.  I  hardly  know  what  the 
poet  means  by 

"  The  wide-ranked  mowers  wading  to  the  knee," 

as  the  mowers  do  not  wade  in  the  grass  they  are  cut- 
ting, though  they  might  appear  to  do  so  when  viewed 


NATURE  AND   THE  POETS.  119 

athwart  the  standing  grass  ;  perhaps  this  is  the  ex- 
planation of  the  line. 

But  this  is  just  what  the  bobolink  does,  when  the 
care  of  his  young  begins  to  weigh  upon  him :  — 

"Meanwhile  that  devil-may-care,  the  bobolink, 
Remembering  duty,  in  mid-quaver  stops 
Just  ere  he  sweeps  o'er  rapture's  tremulous  brink, 
And  'twixt  the  windrows  most  demurely  drops." 

I  do  not  vouch  for  that  dropping  between  the  win- 
drows, as  in  my  part  of  the  country  the  bobolinks  flee 
before  the  hay-makers,  but  that  sudden  stopping  on 
the  brink  of  rapture,  as  if  thoughts  of  his  helpless- 
young  had  extinguished  his  joy,  is  characteristic. 

Another  carefully  studied  description  of  Lowell's, 
is  this :  — 

"  The  robin  sings,  as  of  old  from  the  limb! 
The  cat-bird  croons  in  the  lilac-bush  ! 
Through  the  dim  arbor,  himself  more  dim, 
Silently  hops  the  hermit  thrush." 

Among  trees  Lowell  has  celebrated  the  oak,  the 
pine,  the  birch ;  and  among  flowers,  the  violet  and 
the  dandelion.  The  last,  I  think,  is  the  most  pleas- 
ing of  these  poems :  — 

11  Dear  common  flower,  that  growest  beside  the  way, 
Fringing  the  dusty  road  with  harmless  gold, 
First  pledge  of  blithesome  May." 

The  dandelion  is  indeed,  in  our  latitude,  the  pledge  of 
May.  It  comes  when  the  grass  is  short,  and  the 
fresh  turf  sets  off  its  "  ring  of  gold  "  with  admirable 
effect ;  hence,  we  know  the  poet  is  a  manth  or  more 


120  NATURE  AND   THE  POETS. 

out  of  the  season  when,  in  "  Al  Fresco,"  he  makes  it 
bloom  with  the  buttercup  and  the  clover  :  — 

"  The  dandelions  and  buttercups 
Gild  all  the  lawn ;  the  drowsy  bee 
Stumbles  among  the  clover-tops, 
And  summer  sweetens  all  but  me." 

Of  course  the  dandelion  blooms  occasionally 
throughout  the  whole  summer,  especially  where  the 
grass  is  kept  short,  but  its  proper  season,  when  it 
"  gilds  all  the  lawn,"  is,  in  every  part  of  the  country, 
some  weeks  earlier  than  the  tall  buttercup  (R.  acris) 
and  the  clover.  These  bloom  in  June  in  New  Eng- 
land and  New  York,  and  are  contemporaries  of  the 
daisy.  In  the  meadows  and  lawns,  the  dandelion 
drops  its  flower  and  holds  aloft  its  sphere  of  down, 
touching  the  green  surface  as  with  a  light  frost,  long 
before  the  clover  and  the  buttercup  have  formed 
their  buds.  In  "Al  Fresco"  our  poet  is  literally  in 
clover,  he  is  reveling  in  the  height  of  the  season,  the 
full  tide  of  summer  is  sweeping  around  him,  and  he 
has  riches  enough  without  robbing  May  of  her  dan- 
lelions.  Let  him  say,  — 

"  The  daisies  and  the  buttercups 
Gild  all  the  lawn." 

I  smile  as  I  note  that  the  woodpecker  proves  a  re 
fractory  bird  to  Lowell,  as  well  as  to  Emerson :  — 

Emerson  rhymes  it  with  bear, 
Lowell  rhymes  it  with  hear, 
One  makes  it  woodpeckair, 
The  other,  woodpeckear. 


NATURE   AND   THE  POETS.  121 

But  its  hammer  is  a  musical  one,  and  the  poets  do 
well  to  note  it.  An  Illinois  poet,  I  observe,  ascribes 
the  "  rat-tat-tat "  of  the  downy  or  hairy  woodpecker, 
heard  so  often  in  early  spring  upon  the  resonant 
limbs,  and  again  in  the  Indian  summer,  to  the  yellow- 
hammer,  or  high-hole.  The  high-hole  is  almost  en- 
tirely a  ground  pecker,  and  his  beak  is  seldom  heard 
upon  limb  or  tree,  except  when  he  is  excavating  a 
nest.  Our  most  musical  drummer  upon  dry  limbs 
among  the  woodpeckers  is  the  yellow-bellied.  His 
measured,  deliberate  tap,  heard  in  the  stillness  of  the 
primitive  woods,  produces  an  effect  that  no  bird-song 
is  capable  of. 

Tennyson  is  said  to  have  very  poor  eyes,  but  there 
seems  to  be  no  defect  in  the  vision  with  which  he 
sees  Nature,  while  he  often  hits  the  nail  on  the  head 
in  a  way  that  would  indicate  the  surest  sight.  True, 
he  makes  the  swallow  hunt  the  bee,  which,  for  aught 
I  know,  the  swallow  may  do  in  England.  Our  purple 
martin  has  been  accused  of  catching  the  honey-bee, 
but  I  doubt  his  guilt.  But  those  of  our  swallows 
lhat  correspond  to  the  British  species,  the  barn-swal- 
low, the  cliff-swallow,  and  the  bank-swallow  subsist 
upon  very  small  insects.  But  what  a  clear-cut  picture 
js  that  in  the  same  poem  ("  The  Poet's  Song  ")  :  — 

"  The  wild  hawk  stood,  with  the  down  on  his  beak, 
And  stared,  with  his  foot  on  the  prey." 

It  takes  a  sure  eye,  too,  to  see 

"  The  landscape  winking  thro'  the  heat"  — 


122  NATURE   AND   THE  POETS. 

or  to  gather  this  image :  — 

"  He  has  a  solid  base  of  temperament; 
But  as  the  water-lily  starts  and  slides 
Upon  the  level  in  little  puffs  of  wind, 
Though  anchor'd  to  the  bottom,  such  is  he;  " 
or  this :  — 

"Arms  on  which  the  standing  muscle  sloped, 
As  slopes  a  wild  brook  o'er  a  little  stone, 
Running  too  vehemently  to  break  upon  it,"  — 

and  many  other  gems  that  abound  in  his  poems.  He 
does  not  cut  and  cover  in  a  single  line,  so  far  as  I 
have  observed.  Great  caution  and  exact  knowledge 
underlie  his  most  rapid  and  daring  flights.  A  lady  told 
me  that  she  was  once  walking  with  him  in  the  fields 
when  they  came  to  a  spring  that  bubbled  up  through 
shifting  sands  in  a  very  pretty  manner,  and  Tenny- 
son, in  order  to  see  exactly  how  the  spring  behaved, 
got  down  on  his  hands  and  knees  and  peered  a  long 
time  into  the  water.  The  incident  is  worth  repeating 
as  showing  how  intently  a  great  poet  studies  nature. 

Walt  Whitman  says  he  has  been  trying  for  years 
to  find  a  word  that  would  express  or  suggest  that 
evening  call  of  the  robin.  How  absorbingly  this  poet 
must  have  studied  the  moonlight  to  hit  upon  this  de- 
scriptive phrase  :  — 

"The  vitreous  pour  of  the  full  moon  just  tinged  with  blue;'* 

how  long  have  looked  upon  the  carpenter  at  his  bench 
to  have  made  this  poem  :  — 

"  The  tongue  of  his  fore-plane  whistles  its  wild  ascending  lisp  j" 
or  how  lovingly  listened  to  the  nocturne  of  the  mock 


NATURE   AND   THE   POETS.  123 

fag-bird  to  have  turned  it  into  words  in  "  A  Word 
out  of  the  Sea."  Indeed,  no  poet  has  studied  Ameri- 
can nature  more  closely  than  Whitman  has  —  or  is 
more  cautious  in  his  uses  of  it.  How  easy  are  his 
descriptions  ! 

"Behold  the  day-break! 

The  little  light  fades  the  immense  and  diaphanous  shadows ! " 

"  The  comet  that  came  unannounced 

Out  of  the  north,  flaring  in  heaven." 

"The  fan-shaped  explosion." 

"  The  slender  and  jagged  threads  of  lightning,  as  sudden  and  fast 
amid  the  din  they  chased  each  other  across  the  sky." 

"  Where  the  heifers  browse  —  where  geese  nip  their  food  with 
short  jerks ; 

Where  sundown  shadows  lengthen  over  the  limitless  and  lonesome 
prairie ; 

Where  herds  of  buffalo  make  a  crawling  spread  of  the  square  miles 
far  and  near; 

Where  the  humming-bird  shimmers  —  where  the  neck  of  the  long- 
lived  swan  is  curving  and  winding; 

Where  the  laughing-gull  scoots  by  the  shore  when  she  laughs  her 
near  human  laugh; 

Where  band-neck'd  partridges  roost  hi  a  ring  on  the  ground  with 
their  heads  out." 

Whitman  is  less  local  than  the  New  England  poets 
and  faces  more  to  the  West.  But  he  makes  himself 
at  home  everywhere,  and  puts  in  characteristic  scenes 
and  incidents,  generally  compressed  into  a  single  line, 
"rom  all  trades  and  doings  and  occupations,  North, 
East,  South,  West,  and  identifies  himself  with  man  in 
ill  straits  and  conditions  on  the  continent.  Like  the 


124  NATURE  AND  THE  POETS. 

old  poets,  he  does  not  dwell  upon  nature,  except  oc 
casionally  through  the  vistas  opened  up  by  the  great 
sciences,  as  astronomy  and  geology,  but  upon  life  and 
movement  and  personality,  and  puts  in  a  shred  of 
natural  history  here  and  there,  the  "  twittering  red- 
start," the  spotted-hawk  swooping  by,  the  oscillating 
sea-gulls,  the  yellow-crowned  heron,  the  razor-billed 
auk,  the  lone  wood-duck,  the  migrating  geese,  the 
sharp-hoofed  moose,  the  mocking-bird,  "  the  thrush, 
the  hermit,"  etc.,  to  help  locate  and  define  his  posi- 
tion. Everywhere  in  nature  Whitman  finds  human 
relations,  human  responsions.  In  entire  consistence 
with  botany,  geology,  science,  or  what  not,  he  endues 
his  very  seas  and  woods  with  passion,  more  than  the 
old  hamadryads  05  tritons.  His  fields^  his  rocks,  his 
trees,  are  not  dead  material,  but  living  companions. 
This  is  doubtless  one  reason  why  Addington  Symonds, 
the  young  Hellenic  scholar  of  England,  finds  him 
more  thoroughly  Greek  than  any  other  man  of  mod- 
ern times. 

Our  natural  history,  and  indeed  all  phases  of  life  in 
this  country,  are  rich  in  materials  for  the  poet  that 
have  yet  hardly  been  touched.     Many  of  our  most 
camiliar  birds,  which  are  inseparably  associated  with 
one's  walks  and  recreations  in  the  open  air,  and  with 
the  changes  of  the  seasons,  are  yet  awaiting  their 
poet,  —  as   the   high-hole,   with   his   golden-shafted 
quills  and  loud  continued  spring  call ;  the  meadow 
lark,   with   her   crescent-marked    breast    and   long 
drawn,  piercing,  yet  tender  April  and  May  summons 


NATURE   AND   THE  POETS.  125 

forming,  with  that  of  the  high-hole,  one  of  the  three 
or  four  most  characteristic  field  sounds  of  our  spring ; 
the  happy  gold-finch,  circling  round  and  round  in 
midsummer  with  that  peculiar  undulating  flight  and 
calling  per-chick1 '-o-pee,  per-chickr-o-pee,  at  each  open- 
ing and  shutting  of  the  wings,  or  later  leading  her 
plaintive  brood  among  the  thistle-heads  by  the  road- 
side ;  the  little  indigo-bird,  facing  the  torrid  sun  of 
August  and  singing  through  all  the  livelong  summer 
day  ;  the  contented  musical  soliloquy  of  the  vireo, 
like  the  whistle  of  a  boy  at  his  work,  heard  through 
all  our  woods  from  May  to  September :  — 

"  Pretty  green  worm,  where  are  you? 
Dusky-winged  moth,  how  fare  you, 
When  wind  and  rain  are  in  the  tree  ? 
Cheeryo,  cheerebly,  chee, 
Shadow  and  sun  one  are  to  me. 
Mosquito  and  gnat,  beware  you, 
Saucy  chipmunk,  how  dare  you 
Climb  to  my  nest  in  the  maple-tree, 
And  dig  up  the  corn 
At  noon  and  at  morn  ? 
Cheeryo,  cheerebly,  chee." 

Or  the  phcebe-bird,  with  her  sweet  April  call  and 
mossy  nest  under  the  bridge  or  woodshed,  or  under 
the  shelving  rocks  ;  or  the  brown  thrasher  —  mock- 
ing thrush  —  calling  half  furtively,  half  archly  from 
the  tree-top,  back  in  the  bushy  pastures :  "  Croquet, 
croquet,  hit  it,  hit  it,  come  to  me,  come  to  me,  tight 
it,  tight  it,  you  're  out,  you  're  out,"  with  many  musi- 
sal  interludes ;  or  the  cheewink,  rustling  the  leaves 
ind  peering  under  the  bushes  at  you :  or  the  pretty 


126  NATURE   AND   THE   POETS. 

little  oven-bird,  walking  round  and  round  you  in  the 
woods,  or  suddenly  soaring  above  the  tree-tops,  and 
uttering  its  wild  lyrical  strain ;  or,  farther  south,  the 
whistling  red-bird,  with  his  crest  and  military  bearing, 
—  these  and  many  others  should  be  full  of  sugges- 
tion and  inspiration  to  our  poets.     It  is  only  lately 
that  the  robin's  song  has  been  put  into  poetry.  Noth- 
ing could  be  happier  than  this  rendering  of  it  by  a 
nameless  singer  in  "  A  Masque  of  Poets  "  :  — 
"  When  the  willows  gleam  along  the  brooks, 
And  the  grass  grows  green  in  sunny  nooks, 
In  the  sunshine  and  the  rain 
I  hear  the  robin  in  the  lane 
Singing  'Cheerily 
Cheer  up,  cheer  up  ; 
Cheerily,  cheerily, 
Cheer  up.' 

•«  But  the  snow  is  still 
Along  the  walls  and  on  the  hill. 
The  days  are  cold,  the  nights  forlorn, 
For  one  is  here  and  one  is  gone. 
'  Tut,  tut.    Cheerily, 
Cheer  up,  cheer  up; 
Cheerily,  cheerily, 
Cheer  up.' 

'*  When  spring  hopes  seem  to  wane, 
I  hear  the  joyful  strain  — 
A  song  at  night,  a  song  at  mom, 
A  lesson  deep  to  me  is  borne, 
Hearing,  '  Cheerily, 
Cheer  up,  cheer  up ; 
Cheerily,  cheerily, 
Cheer  up.'  " 

The  poetic  interpretation   of  nature,  which  has 


NATURE  AND   THE  POETS.  127 

tome  to  be  a  convenient  phrase,  and  about  which  the 
Oxford  professor  of  poetry  has  written  a  book,  is,  of 
course,  a  myth,  or  is  to  be  read  the  other  way.  It 
is  the  soul  the  poet  interprets,  not  nature.  There  is 
nothing  in  nature  but  what  the  beholder  supplies. 
Does  the  sculptor  interpret  the  marble  or  his  own 
ideal  ?  Is  the  music  in  the  instrument,  or  in  the 
soul  of  the  performer  ?  Nature  is  a  dead  clod  un- 
til you  have  breathed  upon  it  with  your  genius.  You 
commune  with  your  own  soul,  not  with  woods  or  wa- 
ters ;  they  furnish  the  conditions,  and  are  what  you 
make  them.  Did  Shelley  interpret  the  song  of  the 
skylark,  or  Keats  that  of  the  nightingale  ?  They  in- 
terpreted their  own  wild,  yearning  hearts.  The  trick 
of  the  poet  is  always  to  idealize  nature —  to  see  it 
subjectively.  You  cannot  find  what  the  poets  find 
in  the  woods  until  you  take  the  poet's  heart  to  the 
woods.  He  sees  Nature  through  a  colored  glass,  sees 
it  truthfully,  but  with  an  indescribable  charm  added, 
the  aureole  of  the  spirit.  A  tree,  a  cloud,  a  bird,  a 
sunset,  have  no  hidden  meaning  that  the  art  of  the 
poet  is  to  unlock  for  us.  Every  poet  shall  interpret 
them  differently,  and  interpret  them  rightly,  because 
the  soul  is  infinite.  Milton's  nightingale  is  not  Cole- 
ridge's ;  Burns's  daisy  is  not  Wordsworth's ;  Emer- 
son's humble-bee  is  not  Lowell's ;  nor  does  Turner 
see  in  nature  what  Tintoretto  does,  nor  Veronese  what 
Correggio  does.  Nature  is  all  things  to  all  men. 
^We  carry  within  us,"  says  Sir  Thomas  Browne, 
'4  the  wonders  we  find  without."  The  same  idea  is 


128  NATURE  AND   THE. POETS. 

daintily  expressed  in  these  tripping  verses  of  Bry 
ant's :  — 

"  Yet  these  sweet  sounds  of  the  early  season 

And  these  fair  sights  of  its  early  days, 
Are  only  sweet  when  we  fondly  listen, 
And  only  fair  when  we  fondly  gaze. 

"  There  is  no  glory  in  star  or  blossom, 
Till  looked  upon  by  a  loving  eye ; 
There  is  no  fragrance  in  April  breezes, 
Till  breathed  with  joy  as  they  wander  by ; " 

and  in  these  lines  of  Lowell :  — 

"  What  we  call  Nature,  all  outside  ourselves, 
Is  but  our  own  conceit  of  what  we  see, 
Our  own  reaction  upon  what  we  feel." 

"  I  find  my  own  complexion  everywhere." 
Before  either,  Coleridge  had  said :  — 

"  We  receive  but  what  we  give, 
And  in  our  life  alone  doth  Nature  live; 
Ours  is  the  wedding-garment,  ours  the  shroud ; M 

and  Wordsworth  had  spoken  of 

"  The  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land, 
The  consecration  and  the  poet's  dream." 

That  light  that  never  was, on  sea  or  land  is  what  the 
poet  gives  us,  and  is  what  we  mean  by  the  poetic  in- 
terpretation of  nature.  The  Oxford  professor  strug- 
gles against  this  view.  "  It  is  not  true,"  he  says, 
'*  that  nature  is  a  blank,  or  an  unintelligible  scroll 
with  no  meaning  of  its  own  but  that  which  we  put 
into  it  from  the  light  of  our  own  transient  feelings." 
Not  a  blank,  certainly,  to  the  scientist,  but  full  of 


NATURE  AND   THE  POETS.  129 

definite  meanings  and  laws,  and  a  storehouse  of 
powers  and  economies ;  but  to  the  poet  the  meaning 
is  what  he  pleases  to  make  it,  what  it  provokes  in  his 
own  soul.  To  the  man  of  science  it  is  thus  and  so, 
and  not  otherwise ;  but  the  poet  touches  and  goes, 
and  uses  nature  as  a  garment  which  he  puts  off  and 
on.  Hence,  the  scientific  reading  or  interpretation  of 
nature  is  the  only  real  one.  Says  the  Soothsayer  in 
"  Antony  and  Cleopatra  "  :  — 

"  In  Nature's  infinite  book  of  secresy  a  little  do  I  read." 

This  is  science  bowed  and  reverent,  and  speaking 
through  a  great  poet.  The  poet  himself  does  not  so 
much  read  in  Nature's  book  —  though  he  does  this, 
too  —  as  write  his  own  thoughts  there  ;  Nature  reads 
him,  she  is  the  page  and  he  the  type,  and  she  takes 
the  impression  he  gives.  Of  course  the  poet  uses  the 
truths  of  nature  also,  and  he  establishes  his  right  to 
them  by  bringing  them  home  to  us  with  a  new  and 
peculiar  force  —  a  quickening  or  kindling  .force. 
What  science  gives  is  melted  in  the  fervent  heat  of 
the  poet's  passion,  and  comes  back  to  us  supple* 
mented  by  his  quality  and  genius.  He  gives  more 
than  he  takes,  always. 
9 


NOTES  BY  THE  WAY. 


NOTES  BY  THE  WAY. 
A  NEW  NOTE  IN  THE  WOODS. 

THERE  is  always. a  new  page  to  be  turned  in  nat- 
ural history,  if  one  is  sufficiently  on  the  alert.  I  did 
not  know  that  the  eagle  celebrated  his  nuptials  in  the 
air  till  one  early  spring  day  I  saw  a  pair  of  them  fall 
from  the  sky  with  talons  hooked  together.  They 
dropped  a  hundred  feet  or  more,  in  a  wild  embrace, 
their  great  wings  fanning  the  air,  then  separated  and 
mounted  aloft,  tracing  their  great  circles  against  the 
clouds.  "  Watch  and  wait "  is  the  naturalist's  sign. 
For  years  I  have  been  trying  to  ascertain  for  a  cer- 
tainty the  author  of  that  fine  plaintive  piping,  to  be 
heard  more  or  less  frequently,  according  to  the 
weather,  in  our  summer  and  autumn  woods.  It  is  a 
note  that  much  resembles  that  of  our  small  marsh 
frogs  in  spring  —  the  hylodes  ;  it  is  not  quite  so  clear 
and  assured,  but  otherwise  much  the  same.  Of  a 
very  warm  October  day  I  have  heard  the  wood  vocal 
with  it ;  it  seemed  to  proceed  from  every  stump  and 
tree  about  one.  Ordinarily,  it  is  heard  only  at  inter- 
vals throughout  the  woods.  Approach  never  so  cau- 
tiously the  spot  from  which  the  sound  proceeds,  and 


134  NOTES  BY   THE  WAY. 

it  instantly  ceases,  and  you  may  watch  for  an  hour 
without  again  hearing  it.  Is  it  a  frog,  I  said,  the 
small  tree-frog,  the  piper  of  the  marshes  repeating 
his  spring  note  but  little  changed  amid  the  trees  ? 
Doubtless  it  is,  yet  I  must  see  him  in  the  very  act. 
So  I  watched  and  waited,  but  to  no  purpose,  till  one 
day,  while  bee-hunting  in  the  woods,  I  heard  the 
sound  proceed  from  beneath  the  leaves  at  my  feet. 
Keeping  entirely  quiet,  the  little  musician  presently 
emerged,  and  lifting  himself  up  on  a  small  stick,  his 
throat  palpitated  and  the  plaintive  note  again  came 
forth.  "  The  queerest  frog  ever  I  saw,"  said  a  youth 
who  accompanied  me,  and  whom  I  had  enlisted  to 
help  solve  the  mystery.  No  ;  it  was  no  frog  or  toad 
at  all,  but  the  small  red  salamander,  commonly  called 
lizard.  The  color  is  not  strictly  red,  but  a  dull  or- 
ange, variegated  with  minute  specks  or  spots.  This 
was  the  mysterious  piper,  then,  heard  from  May  till 
November  through  all  our  woods,  sometimes  on  trees, 
but  usually  on  or  near  the  ground.  It  makes  more 
music  in  the  woods  in  autumn  than  any  bird.  It  is  a 
pretty,  inoffensive  creature,  walks  as  awkwardly  as  a 
baby,  and  may  often  be  found  beneath  stones  and  old 
logs  in  the  woods,  where,  buried  in  the  mould,  it 
passes  the  winter.  (I  suspect  there  is  a  species  of  lit- 
tle frog  —  Pickering's  hylodes  —  that  also  pipes  occa- 
sionally in  the  woods.)  I  have  discovered,  also,  that 
we  have  a  musicaJ  spider.  One  sunny  April  day, 
while  seated  on  the  borders  of  *he  woods,  my  atten- 
tion was  attracted  by  a  soft,  uncertain  purring  sound 


NOTES  BY   THE  WAY.  135 

that  proceeded  from  the  dry  leaves  at  my  feet.  On 
investigating  the  matter,  I  found  that  it  was  made  by 
a  busy  little  spider.  Several  of  them  were  traveling 
about  over  the  leaves  as  if  in  quest  of  some  lost  cue 
or  secret.  Every  moment  or  two  they  would  pause, 
and  by  some  invisible  means  make  the  low  purring 
sound  referred  to.  Prof.  J.  C.  Allen  says  the  com- 
mon turtle  or  land  tortoise  also  has  a  note,  —  a  loud, 
shrill,  piping  sound.  It  may  yet  be  discovered  that 
there  is  no  silent  creature  in  nature. 


THE  SAND  HORNET. 

• 

I  TURNED  another  (to  me)  new  page  in  natural 
history,  when,  during  the  past  season,  I  made  the 
acquaintance  of  the  sand  wasp  or  hornet.  From 
boyhood  I  had  known  the  black  hornet,  with  his 
large  paper  nest,  and  the  spiteful  yellow-jacket,  with 
his  lesser  domicile,  and  had  cherished  proper  con- 
tempt for  the  various  indolent  wasps.  But  the  sand 
hornet  was  a  new  bird,  in  fact,  the  harpy  eagle  among 
insects,  and  he  made  an  impression.  While  walking 
along  the  road  about  midsummer,  I  noticed  working 
in  the  tow-path,  where  the  ground  was  rather  inclined 
to  be  dry  and  sandy,  a  large  yellow  hornet-like  insect. 
It  made  a  hole  the  size  of  one's  little  finger  in  the 
hard,  gravelly  path  beside  the  road-bed.  When  dis- 
turbed, it  alighted  on  the  dirt  and  sand  in  the  middU 


136  NOTES   BY   THE   WAY. 

of  the  road.  I  had  noticed  in  my  walks  some  small 
bullet-like  holes  in  the  field  that  had  piqued  my  curi- 
osity, and  I  determined  to  keep  an  eye  on  these  in- 
sects of  the  road-side.  I  explored  their  holes,  and 
found  them  quite  shallow,  and  no  mystery  at  the  bot- 
tom of  them.  One  morning  in  the  latter  part  of  July, 
walking  that  way,  I  was  quickly  attracted  by  the  sight 
of  a  row  of  little  mounds  of  fine  freshly  dug  earth  rest- 
ing upon  the  grass  beside  the  road,  a  foot  or  more  be- 
neath the  path.  "  What  is  this  ?  "  I  said.  "  Mice,  or 
squirrels,  or  snakes,"  said  my  neighbor.  But  I  con- 
nected it  at  once  with  the  strange  insect  I  had  seen. 
Neither  mice  nor  squirrels  work  like  that,  and  snakes 
do  not  dig.  Above  each  mound  of  earth  was  a  hole 
the  size  of  one's  largest  finger,  leading  into  the  bank. 
While  speculating  about  the  phenomenon,  I  saw  one 
of  the  large  yellow  hornets  I  had  observed,  quickly 
enter  one  of  the  holes.  That  settled  the  query. 
While  spade  and  hoe  were  being  brought  to  dig  him 
out,  another  hornet  appeared,  heavy-laden  with  some 
prey,  and  flew  humming  up  and  down  and  around  the 
place  where  I  was  standing.  I  withdrew  a  little, 
when  he  quickly  alighted  upon  one  of  the  mounds  of 
earth,  and  I  saw  him  carrying  into  his  den  no  less  an 
insect  than  the  cicada  or  harvest-fly.  Then  another 
came,  and  after  coursing  up  and  down  a  few  times, 
disturbed  by  my  presence,  alighted  upon  a  tree,  with 
his  quarry,  to  rest.  The  black  hornet  will  capture  a 
fly,  or  a  small  butterfly,  and  after  creaking  and  dis- 
membering it,  will  take  it  to  his  nest ;  but  here  was 


NOTES   BY   THE   WAY.  137 

this  hornet  carrying  an  insect  much  larger  than  him- 
self, and  flying  with  ease  and  swiftness.  It  was  as  if 
a  hawk  should  carry  a  hen,  or  an  eagle  a  turkey.  I 
at  once  proceeded  to  dig  for  one  of  the  hornets,  and 
after  following  his  hole  about  three  feet  under  the 
foot-path  and  to  the  edge  of  the  road-bed,  succeeded 
in  capturing  him,  and  recovering  the  cicada.  The 
hornet  weighed  fifteen  grains,  and  the  cicada  nine- 
teen ;  but  in  bulk  the  cicada  exceeded  the  hornet  by 
more  than  half.  In  color,  the  wings  and  thorax,  or 
waist,  of  the  hornet,  were  a  rich  bronze ;  the  abdo- 
men was  black,  with  three  irregular  yellow  bands; 
the  legs  were  large  and  powerful,  especially  the  third, 
or  hindmost  pair,  which  were  much  larger  than  the 
others,  and  armed  with  many  spurs  and  hooks.  In 
digging  its  hole  the  hornet  has  been  seen  at  work 
very  early  in  the  morning.  It  backed  out  with  the 
loosened  material  like  any  othe'r  animal  under  the 
same  circumstances,  holding  and  scraping  back  the  dirt 
with  its  legs.  The  preliminary  prospecting  upon  the 
foot-path,  which  I  had  observed,  seems  to  have  been 
Ihe  work  of  the  males,  as  it  was  certainly  of  the 
smaller  hornets,  and  the  object  was  doubtless  to  ex- 
amine the  ground,  and  ascertain  if  the  place  was 
suitable  for  nesting.  By  digging  two  or  three  inches 
through  the  hard,  gravelly  surface  of  the  road,  a  fine 
sandy  loam  was  discovered,  which  seemed  to  suit  ex- 
actly, for  in  a  few  days  the  main  shafts  were  all 
itarted  in  the  greensward,  evidently  upon  the  strength 
tf  the  favorable  report  which  the  surveyors  hatf 


138  NOTES  BY   THE  WAY. 

made.  These  were  dug  by  the  larger  hornets  or  fe- 
males. There  was  but  one  inhabitant  in  each  hole, 
and  the  holes  were  two  to  three  feet  apart.  One  that 
we  examined  had  nine  chambers  or  galleries  at  the  end 
of  it,  in  each  of  which  were  two  locusts,  or  eighteen 
in  all.  The  locusts  of  the  locality  had  suffered  great 
slaughter.  Some  of  them  in  the  hole  or  den  had  been 
eaten  to  a  mere  shell  by  the  larvae  of  the  hornet. 
Under  the  wing  of  each  insect  an  egg  is  attached; 
the  egg  soon  hatches,  and  the  grub  at  once  proceeds 
to  devour  the  food  its  thoughtful  parent  has  provided. 
As  it  grows  it  weaves  itself  a  sort  of  shell  or  cocoon, 
into  which,  after  a  time,  it  undergoes  its  metamor- 
phosis, and  comes  out,  I  think,  a  perfect  insect  to- 
ward the  end  of  summer. 

I  understood  now  the  meaning  of  that  sudden  cry 
of  alarm  I  had  so  often  heard  proceed  from  the  locust 
or  cicada,  followed  by  some  object  falling  and  rust- 
ling amid  the  leaves ;  the  poor  insect  was  doubtless 
in  the  clutches  of  this  arch  enemy.  A  number  of 
locusts  usually  passed  the  night  on  the  under  side  of 
a  large  limb  of  a  *  mulberry  tree  near  by ;  early  one 
morning  a  hornet  was  seen  to  pounce  suddenly  upon 
one  and  drag  it  over  on  the  top  of  the  limb ;  a  strug- 
gle ensued,  but  the  locust  was  soon  quieted  and  car- 
ried off.  It  is  said  that  the  hornet  does  not  sting  the 
insect,  —  for  that  would  kill  it,  and  it  would  not  keep 
fresh  for  its  young,  —  but  stupefies  it,  or  chloroforms 
\t,  or  does  something  of  the  sort,  so  that  life  remain! 
for  some  days. 


NOTES  BY   THE  WAY.  139 

My  friend  Van,  who  watched  the  hornets  in  my 
absence,  saw  a  fierce  battle  one  day  over  the  right  of 
possession  of  one  of  the  dens.  An  angry,  humming 
sound  was  heard  to  proceed  from  one  of  the  holes ; 
gradually  it  approached  the  surface,  until  the  hornets 
emerged  locked  in  each  other's  embrace,  and  rolled 
down  the  little  embankment,  where  the  combat  was 
continued.  Finally,  one  released  his  hold  and  took 
up  his  position  in  the  mouth  of  his  den  (of  course  I 
should  say  she  and  her,  as  these  were  the  queen  hor- 
nets), where  she  seemed  to  challenge  her  antagonist 
to  come  on.  The  other  one  manoeuvred  about  a 
while,  but  could  not  draw  her  enemy  out  of  her 
stronghold ;  then  she  clambered  up  the  bank  and  be- 
gan to  bite  and  tear  off  bits  of  grass  and  to  loosen 
gravel-stones  arid  earth,  and  roll  them  down  into  the 
mouth  of  the  disputed  passage.  This  caused  the  be- 
sieged hornet  to  withdraw  farther  into  her  hole, 
when  the  other  came  down  and  thrust  in  her  head, 
but  hesitated  to  enter.  After  more  manoeuvring, 
the  aggressor  withdrew,  and  began  to  bore  a  hole 
about  a  foot  from  the  one  she  had  tried  to  possess 
herself  of  by  force. 

Besides  the  cicada,  the  sand  hornet  captures  grass- 
hoppers and  other  large  insects.  I  have  never  met 
with  it  before  the  present  summer  (1879),  but  this 
year  I  have  heard  of  its  appearance  at  several  point* 
along  the  Hudson. 


140  NOTES  BY   THE  WAY. 


THE  SOLITARY  BEE. 

IF  you  "  leave  no  stone  unturned  "  in  your  walks 
through  the  fields,  you  may  perchance  discover  the 
abode  of  one  of  our  solitary  bees.  Indeed,  I  have 
often  thought  what  a  chapter  of  natural  history  might 
be  written  on  "Life  under  a  Stone,"  so  many  of  our 
smaller  creatures  take  refuge  there,  —  ants,  crickets, 
spiders,  wasps,  bumble-bees,  the  solitary  bee,  mice, 
toads,  snakes,  newts,  etc.  What  do  these  things  do 
in  a  country  where  there  are  no  stones?  A  stone 
makes  a  good  roof,  a  good  shield ;  it  is  water-proof 
and  fire-proof,  and,  until  the  season  becomes  too  rig- 
orous, frost-proof,  too.  The  field-mouse  wants  no 
better  place  to  nest  than  beneath  a  large,  flat  stone, 
and  the  bumble-bee  is  entirely  satisfied  if  she  can  get 
possession  of  his  old  or  abandoned  quarters.  I  have 
even  heard  of  a  swarm  of  hive  bees  going  under  a 
stone  that  was  elevated  a  little  from  the  ground. 
After  that,  I  did  not  marvel  at  Samson's  bees  going 
into  the  carcass  or  skeleton  oi  the  lion. 

In  the  woods  one  day  (it  was  in  November)  I 
turned  over  a  stone  that  had  a  very  strange-looking 
creature  under  it,  —  a  species  of  salamander  I  had 
never  before  seen,  the  S.  Fasciata.  It  was  five  or 
six  inches  long,  and  was  black  and  white  in  alternate 
bands.  It  looked  like  a  creature  of  the  night,  — • 
darkness  dappled  with  moonlight,  —  and  so  it  proved. 
I  wrapped  it  up  in  some  leaves  and  took  it  home  in 


NOTES   BY    THE  WAY.  141 

tny  pocket.  By  day  it  would  barely  move,  and  could 
not  be  stimulated  or  frightened  into  any  degree  of 
activity ;  but  at  night  it  was  alert  and  wide  awake* 
Of  its  habits  I  know  little,  but  it  is  a  pretty  and 
harmless  creature.  Under  another  stone  was  still 
another  species,  the  S.  Subviolacea,  larger,  of  a  dark 
plum-color,  with  two  rows  of  bright  yellow  spots 
down  its  back.  It  evinced  more  activity  than  its  fel- 
low of  the  moon-bespattered  garb.  I  tiave  also  found 
the  little  musical  red  newt  under  stones,  and  several 
small,  dark  species. 

But  to  return  to  the  solitary  bee.  When  you  ga 
a-hunting  of  the  honey-bee,  and  are  in  quest  of  a  spec- 
imen among  the  asters  or  golden-rod  in  some  remote 
field  to  start  a  line  with,  you  shall  see  how  much  this 
little  native  bee  resembles  her  cousin  of  the  social 
hive.  There  appear  to  be  several  varieties,  but  the 
one  I  have  in  mind  is  just  the  size  of  the  honey-bee, 
and  of  the  same  gejieral  form  and  color,  and  its  man- 
ner among  the  flowers  is  nearly  the  same.  On  close 
inspection,  its  color  proves  to  be  lighter,  while  the 
under  side  of  its  abdomen  is  of  a  rich  bronze.  The 
body  is  also  flatter  and  less  tapering,  and  the  curve 
inclines  upward,  rather  than  downward.  You  per- 
ceive it  would  be  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world  for 
the  bee  to  sting  an  enemy  perched  upon  its  back. 
One  variety,  with  a  bright  buff  abdomen,  is  called 
<  sweat-bee  "  by  the  laborers  in  the  field,  because  it 
•Jights  upon  their  hands  and  bare  arms  when  they 
are  sweaty,  —  doubtless  in  quest  of  salt.  It  buildi 


142  NOTES   BY   THE   WAY. 

its  nest  in  little  cavities  in  rails  and  posts.  But  the 
one  with  the  bronze,  or  copper,  bottom  builds  under 
a  stone.  I  discovered  its  nest  one  day  in  this  wise : 
I  was  lying  upon  the  ground  in  a  field,  watching  a 
line  of  honey-bees  to  the  woods,  when  my  attention 
was  arrested  by  one  of  these  native  bees  flying  about 
me  in  a  curious,  inquiring  way.  When  it  returned 
the  third  time,  I  said,  "That  bee  wants  something  of 
me,"  which  proved  to  be  the  case,  for  I  was  lying 
upon  the  entrance  to  its  nest.  On  my  getting  up,  it 
alighted  and  crawled  quickly  home.  I  turned  over 
the  stone,  which  was  less  than  a  foot  across,  when 
the  nest  was  partially  exposed.  It  consisted  of  four 
cells,  built  in  succession  in  a  little  tunnel  that  had 
been  excavated  in  the  ground.  The  cells,  which 
were  about  three  quarters  of  an  inch  long  and  half  as 
far  through,  were  made  of  sections  cut  from  the  leaf 
of  the  maple  —  cut  with  the  mandibles  of  the  bee, 
which  work  precisely  like  shears.  •  I  have  seen  the 
bee  at  work  cutting  out  these  pieces.  She  moves 
through  the  leaf  like  the  hand  of  the  tailor  through  a 
piece  of  cloth.  When  the  pattern  is  detached  she 
rolls  it  up,  and,  embracing  it  with  her  legs,  flies  home 
with  it,  often  appearing  to  have  a  bundle  dispropor- 
tionately large.  Each  cell  is  made  up  of  a  dozen  or 
-more  pieces ;  the  larger  ones,  those  that  form  its 
walls,  like  the  walls  of  a  paper  bag,  are  oblong,  and 
ure  turned  down  at  one  end,  so  as  to  form  the  bot- 
tom :  not  one  thickness  of  leaf  merely,  but  three 
or  four  thicknesses,  each  fragment  of  leaf  lapping 


NOTES   BY    THE   WAY.  143 

over  another.  When  the  cell  is  completed  it  is  filled 
about  two  thirds  full  of  bee-bread  —  the  color  of  that 
in  the  comb  in  the  hive,  but  not  so  dry,  and  having  a 
sourish  smell.  Upon  this  the  egg  is  laid,  and  upon 
this  the  young  feed  when  hatched.  Is  the  paper  bag 
now  tied  up  ?  No,  it  is  headed  up ;  circular  bits  of 
leaves  are  nicely  fitted  into  it  to  the  number  of  six  or 
seven.  They  are  cut  without  pattern  or  compass, 
and  yet  they  are  all  alike,  and  all  exactly  fit.  In- 
deed, the  construction  of  this  cell  or  receptacle  shows 
great  ingenuity  and  skill.  The  bee  was,  of  course, 
unable  to  manage  a  single  section  of  a  leaf  large 
enough,  when  rolled  up  to  form  it,  and  so  was  obliged 
to  construct  it  of  smaller  pieces,  such  as  she  could 
carry,  lapping  them  one  over  another. 

A  few  days  late*  I  saw  a  smaller  species  carrying 
fragments  of  a  yellow  autumn  leaf  under  a  stone 
in  a  corn-field.  On  examining  the  place  about  sun- 
down to  see  if  the  bee  lodged  there,  I  found  her 
snugly  ensconced  in  a  little  rude  cell  that  adhered  to 
the  under  side  of  the  stone.  There  was  no  pollen  in 
it,  and  I  half  suspected  it  was  merely  a  berth  in  which 
to  pass  tjie  night. 

These  bees  do  not  live  even  in  pairs,  but  absolutely 
alone.  They  have  large  baskets  on  their  legs  in  which 
to  carry  pollen,  an  article  they  are  very  industrious 
n  collecting. 

Why  the  larger  species  above  described  should 
have  waited  till  October  to  build  its  nest  is  a  mystery 
•Q  me.  Perhaps  this  was  the  second  brood  of  th« 


144  NOTES  BY   THE  WAY. 

season,  or  can  it  be  that  the  young  were  not  to  hatch 
till  the  following  spring  ? 


THE  WEATHER-WISE   MUSKRAT. 

I  AM  more  than  half  persuaded  that  the  muskrat 
is  a  wise  little  animal,  and  that  on  the  subject  of  the 
weather,  especially,  he  possesses  some  secret  that  I 
should  be  glad  to  know.  In  the  fall  of  1878  I  noticed 
that  he  built  unusually  high  and  massive  nests.  I 
noticed  them  in  several  different  localities.  In  a  shal- 
low, sluggish  pond  by  the  roadside,  which  I  used  to 
pass  daily  in  my  walk,  two  nests  were  in  process  of 
construction  throughout  the  month  of  November. 
The  builders  worked  only  at  night,  and  I  could  see 
each  day  that  the  work  had  visibly  advanced.  When 
there  was  a  slight  skim  of  ice  over  the  pond,  this  was 
broken  up  about  the  nests,  with  trails  through  it  in 
different  directions  where  the  material  had  been 
brought.  The  houses  were  placed  a  little  to  one 
side  of  the  main  channel,  and  were  constructed  en- 
tirely of  a  species  of  coarse  wild  grass  that  grew  all 
about.  So  far  as  I  could  see,  from  first  to  last  they 
were  solid  masses  of  grass,  as  if  the  interior  cavity  or 
nest  was  to  be  excavated  afterward,  as  doubtless  it 
was.  As  they  emerged  from  the  pond  they  gradually 
assumed  the  shape  of  a  miniature  mountain,  very  bold 
tnd  steep  on  the  south  side,  and  running  down  a  long 


NOTES   BY   THE  WAY.  145 

gentle  grade  to  the  surface  of  the  water  on  the  north. 
One  could  see  that  the  little  architect  hauled  all  his 
material  up  this  easy  slope,  and  thrust  it  out  boldly 
around  the  other  side.  Every  mouthful  was  distinctly 
defined.  After  they  were  two  feet  or  more  above  the 
water,  I  expected  each  day  to  see  that  the  finishing 
stroke  had  been  given  and  the  work  brought  to  a 
close.  But  higher  yet,  said  the  builder.  December 
drew  near,  the  cold  became  threatening,  and  I  waa 
apprehensive  that  winter  would  suddenly  shut  down 
upon  those  unfinished  nests.  But  the  wise  rats  knew 
better  than  I  did ;  they  had  received  private  advices 
from  headquarters,  that  I  knew  not  of.  Finally, 
about  the  6th  of  December,  the  nests  assumed  com- 
pletion ;  the  northern  incline  was  absorbed  or  carried 
up,  and  each  structure  became  a  strong  massive  cone, 
three  or  four  feet  high,  the  largest  nest  of  the  kind  I 
had  ever  seen.  Does  it  mean  a  severe  winter?  I 
inquired.  An  old  farmer  said  it  meant  "  high  water," 
and  he  was  right  once,  at  least,  for  in  a  few  days 
afterward  we  had  the  heaviest  rain-fall  known  in 
this  section  for  half  a  century.  The  creeks  rose  to 
j*n  almost  unprecedented  height.  The  sluggish  pond 
became  a  seething,  turbulent  water-course  ;  gradually 
the  angry  element  crept  up  the  sides  of  these  lake 
dwellings,  till,  when  the  rain  ceased,  about  four 
o'clock,  they  showed  above  the  flood  no  larger  than 
a  man's  hat.  During  the  night  the  channel  shifted 
till  the  main  current  swept  over  them,  and  next  day 
uot  a  vestige  of  the  nests  was  to  be  seen  ;  they  had 
10 


146  NOTES  BY  THE   WAY. 

gone  down-stream,  as  had  many  other  dwellings  of  a 
less  temporary  character.  The  rats  had  built  wisely, 
and  would  have  been  perfectly  secure  against  any 
ordinary  high  water,  but  who  can  foresee  a  flood  ? 
The  oldest  traditions  of  their  race  did  not  run  back 
to  the  time  of  such  a  visitation. 

Nearly  a  week  afterward  another  dwelling  was 
begun,  well  away  from  the  treacherous  channel,  but 
the  architects  did  not  work  at  it  with  much  heart ; 
the  material  was  very  scarce,  the  ice  hindered,  and 
before  the  basement-story  was  fairly  finished,  winter 
had  the  pond  under  his  lock  and  key. 

In  other  localities  I  noticed  that  where  the  nests 
were  placed  on  the  banks  of  streams,  they  were  made 
secure  against  the  floods  by  being  built  amid  a  small 
clump  of  bushes.  When  the  fall  of  1879  came,  the 
muskrats  were  very  tardy  about  beginning  their  house, 
laying  the  corner-stone  —  or  the  corner-sod  —  about 
December  1st,  and  continuing  the  work  slowly  and 
indifferently.  On  the  15th  of  the  month  the  nest 
was  not  yet  finished.  This,  I  said,  indicates  a  mild 
winter ;  and,  sure  enough,  the  season  was  one  of  the 
mildest  known  for  many  years.  The  rats  had  little 
use  for  their  house. 

Again,  in  the  fall  of  1880,  while  the  weather-wise 
were  wagging  their  heads,  some  forecasting  a  mild, 
tjome  a  severe,  winter,  I  watched  with  interest  for  a 
sign  from  my  muskrats.  About  November  1st,  a 
month  earlier  than  the  previous  year,  they  began 
Jieir  nest,  and  worked  at  it  with  a  will.  They  ap 


NOTES   BY   THE  WAY.  147 

peared  to  have  just  got  tidings  of  what  was  coming* 
If  I  had  taken  the  hint  so  palpably  given,  my  celery 
would  not  have  been  frozen  up  in  the  ground,  and 
my  apples  caught  in  unprotected  places.  When  the 
cold  wave  struck  us,  about  November  20th,  my  four- 
legged  "  I-told-you-so's  "  had  nearly  completed  their 
dwelling ;  it  lacked  only  the  ridge-board,  so  to  speak  ;; 
it  needed  a  little  "  topping  out,"  to  give  it  a  finished 
look.  But  this  it  never  got.  The  winter  had  come- 
to  stay,  and  it  waxed  more  and  more  severe,  till  the 
unprecedented  cold  of  the  last  days  of  December  must 
have  astonished  even  the  wise  muskrats  in  their  snug 
retreat.  I  approached  their  nest  at  this  time,  a  white 
mound  upon  the  white,  deeply  frozen  surface  of  the 
pond,  and  wondered  if  there  was  any  life  in  that  ap- 
parent sepulchre.  I  thrust  my  walking-stick  sharply 
into  it,  when  there  was  a  rustle  and  a  splash  into  the 
water,  as  the  occupant  made  his  escape.  What  a 
damp  basement  that  house  has,  I  thought,  and  what 
a  pity  to  rout  a  peaceful  neighbor  out  of  his  bed  in 
this  weather,  and  into  such  a  state  of  things  as  this ! 
But  water  does  not  wet  the  muskrat;  his  fur  is 
charmed,  and  not  a  drop  penetrates  it. 

Where  the  ground  is  favorable,  the  muskrats  do 
not  build  these  mound-like  nests,  but  burrow  into  the 
bank  a  long  distance,  and  establish  their  winter  quar- 
ters there. 

Shall  we  not  say,  then,  in  view  of  the  above  facts, 
that  this  little  creature  is  weather-wise  ?  The  hitting 
of  the  mark  twice  might  be  mere  good  luck;  but 


148  NOTES   BY  THE   WAY. 

three  bull's-eyes  in  succession  is  not  a  mere  coinci- 
dence; it  is  a  proof  of  skill.  The  muskrat  is  not 
found  in  the  Old  World,  which  is  a  little  singular,  as 
other  rats  so  abound  there,  and  as  those  slow-going 
English  streams  especially,  with  their  grassy  banks, 
are  so  well  suited  to  him.  The  water-rat  of  Europe  is 
smaller,  but  of  similar  nature  and  habits.  The  musk 
rat  does  not  hibernate  like  some  rodents,  but  is  pretty 
active  all  winter.  In  December  I  noticed  in  my  walk 
where  they  had  made  excursions  of  a  few  yards  to  an 
orchard  for  frozen  apples.  One  day,  along  a  little 
stream,  I  saw  a  mink  track  amid  those  of  the  musk- 
rat  ;  following  it  up,  I  presently  came  to  blood  and 
other  marks  of  strife  upon  the  snow  beside  a  stone 
wall.  Looking  in  between  the  stones,  I  found  the 
carcass  of  the  luckless  rat,  with  its  head  and  neck 
eaten  away.  The  mink  had  made  a  meal  of  him. 


CHEATING  THE  SQUIRRELS. 

FOR  the  largest  and.  finest  chestnuts  I  had  last 
fall  I  was  indebted  to  the  gray  squirrels.  Walking 
through  the  early  October  woods  one  day,  I  came 
vpon  a  place  where  the  ground  was  thickly  strewn 
with  very  large  unopened  chestnut  burs.  On  exam- 
ination I  found  that  every  bur  had  been  cut  square 
off  with  about  an  inch  of  the  stem  adhering,  and  no* 
one  had  been  left  on  the  tree.  It  was  not  accident 


NOTES   BY    THE  WAY.  149 

then,  but  design.  Whose  design?  The  squirrels'. 
The  fruit  was  the  finest  I  had  ever  seen  in  the  woods, 
and  some  wise  squirrel  had  marked  it  for  his  own. 
The  burs  were  ripe,  and  had  just  begun  to  divide, 
not  "  threefold,"  but  fourfold,  "  to  show  the  fruit 
within."  The  squirrel  that  had  taken  all  this  pains 
had  evidently  reasoned  with  himself  thus :  "  Now, 
these  are  extremely  fine  chestnuts,  and  I  want  them ; 
if  I  wait  till  the  burs  open  on  the  tree  the  crows  and 
jays  will  be  sure  to  carry  off  a  great  many  of  the 
nuts  before  they  fall ;  then,  after  the  wind  has  rat- 
tled out  what  remain,  there  are  the  mice,  the  chip- 
munks, the  red  squirrels,  the  raccoons,  the  grouse,  to 
say  nothing  of  the  boys  and  the  pigs,  to  come  in  for 
their  share  ;  so  I  will  forestall  events  a  little  ;  I  will 
cut  off  the  burs  when  they  have  matured,  and  a  few 
days  of  this  dry  October  weather  will  cause  every 
one  of  them  to  open  on  the  ground ;  I  shall  be  on 
hand  in  the  nick  of  time  to  gather  up  my  nuts." 
The  squirrel,  of  course,  had  to  take  the  chances  of  a 
prowler  like  myself  coming  along,  but  he  had  fairly 
stolen  a  march  on  his  neighbors.  As  I  proceeded  to 
collect  and  open  the  burs,  I  was  half  prepared  to 
hear  an  audible  protest  from  the  trees  about,  for  I 
Constantly  fancied  myself  watched  by  shy  but  jealous 
oyes.  It  is  an  interesting  inquiry  how  the  squirrel 
knew  the  burs  would  open  if  left  to  lie  on  the  ground 
a  few  days.  Perhaps  he  did  not  know,  but  thought 
the  experiment  worth  trying. 
The  gray  squirrel  is  peculiarly  an  American  prod- 


150  NOTES  BY   THE   WAY. 

uct,  and  might  serve  very  well  as  a  national  emblem. 
The  Old  World  can  beat  us  on  rats  and  mice,  but  we 
are  far  ahead  on  squirrels,  having  five  or  six  species 
to  Europe's  one. 


THE  SKYLAKK  ON  THE  HUDSON. 

MY  note-book  of  the  past  season  is  enriched  with 
the  unusual  incident  of  an  English  skylark  in  full 
song  above  an  Esopus  meadow.  I  was  poking 
about  a  marshy  place  in  a  low  field  one  morning  in 
early  May,  when  through  the  maze  of  bird-voices: 
laughter  of  robins,  call  of  meadow-larks,  song  of  bob- 
olinks, ditty  of  sparrows,  whistle  of  orioles,  twitter  of 
swallows,  etc.,  with  which  the  air  was  filled,  my  ear 
suddenly  caught  an  unfamiliar  strain.  I  paused  to 
listen  :  can  it  be  possible,  I  thought,  that  I  hear  a 
lark,  or  am  I  dreaming.  The  song  came  from  the 
air,  above  a  wide,  low  meadow  many  hundred  yards 
away.  Withdrawing  a  few  paces  to  a  more  elevated 
position,  I  bent  my  eye. and  ear  eagerly  in  that  direc- 
tion. Yes,  that  unstinted,  jubilant,  skyward,  multi- 
tudinous song  can  be  none  other  than  the  lark's  I 
Any  of  our  native  songsters  would  have  ceased  while 
I  was  listening.  Presently  I  was  fortunate  enough  to 
catch  sight  of  the  bird.  He  had  reached  his  climax 
ji  the  sky  and  was  hanging  with  quivering  wings 
beneath  a  small  white  cloud,  against  which  his  fornc 


NOTES   BY   THE  WAY.  151 

tvas  clearly  revealed.  I  had  seen  and  heard  the  lark 
in  England,  else  I  should  still  have  been  in  doubt 
about  the  identity  of  this  singer.  While  I  was  climb- 
ing a  fence  I  was  obliged  to  take  my  eye  from  the 
bird,  and  when  I  looked  again  the  song  had  ceased 
and  the  lark  had  gone.  I  was  soon  in  the  meadow 
above  which  I  had  heard  him,  and  the  first  bird  I 
flushed  was  the  lark. 

How  strange  he  looked  to  my  eye  (I  use  the 
masculine  gender  because  it  was  a  male  bird,  but  an 
Irishman  laboring  in  the  field,  to  whom  I  related  my 
discovery,  spoke  touchingly  of  the  bird  as  "  she," 
and  I  notice  that  the  old  poets  do  the  same),  —  his 
long,  sharp  wings  and  something  in  his  manner  of 
flight  that  suggested  a  shore  bird.  I  followed  him 
about  the  meadow  and  gqt  several  snatches  of  song 
out  of  him,  but  not  again  the  soaring,  skyward  flight 
and  copious  musical  shower.  By  appearing  to  pass 
by  I  several  times  got  within  a  few  yards  of  him  ;  as 
I  drew  near  he  would  squat  in  the  stubble,  and  f.hen 
suddenly  start  up,  and,  when  fairly  launched,  sing 
briefly  till  he  alighted  again  fifteen  'or  twenty  rods 
away.  I  came  twice  the  next  day  and  twice  the  next, 
and  each  time  found  the  lark  in  the  meadow  or  heard 
\\8  song  from  the  air  or  the  sky.  What  was  espe- 
cially interesting  was  that  the  lark  had  "  singled  out 
with  affection  "  one  of  our  native  bii  ds,  and  the  *>ne 
that  most  resembled  its  kind,  namelj  the  vesper-spar- 
row, or  grass-finch.  To  this  bird  I  saw  him  paying 
bis  addresses  with  the  greatest  assiduity.  He  would 


152  NOTES   BY   THE   WAY. 

follow  it  about  and  hover  above  it,  and  by  many 
gentle  indirections  seek  to  approach  it.  But  the 
sparrow  was  shy,  and  evidently  did  not  know  what  to 
make  of  her  distinguished  foreign  lover.  It  would 
bometimes  take  refuge  in  a  bush,  when  the  lark,  not 
being  a  percher,  would  alight  upon  the  ground  .be- 
neath it.  This  sparrow  looks  enough  like  the  lark  to 
be  a  near  relation.  Its  color  is  precisely  the  same, 
and  it  has  the  distinguishing  mark  of  the  two  lateral 
white  quills  in  its  tail.  It  has  the  same  habit  of 
skulking  in  the  stubble  or  the  grass  as  you  approach ; 
it  is  exclusively  a  field-bird,  and  certain  of  its  notes 
might  have  been  copied  from  the  lark's  song.  In  size 
it  is  about  a  third  smaller,  and  this  is  the  most  marked 
difference  between  them.  With  the  nobler  bipeds, 
this  would  not  have  been  any  obstacle  to  the  union, 
and  in  this  case  the  lark  was  evidently  quite  ready  to 
ignore  the  difference,  but  the  sparrow  persisted  in 
sa;y  ing  him  nay.  It  was  doubtless  this  obstinacy  on 
her  part  that  drove  the  lark  away,  for,  on  the  fifth 
day,  I  could  not  find  him  and  have  never  seen  nor 
heard  him  since.  I  hope  he  found  a  mate  some- 
where, but  it  is  quite  improbable.  The  bird  had, 
most  likely,  escaped"  from  a  cage,  or,  may  be,  it  was 
a  survivor  of  a  number  liberated  some  years  ago  on 
Long  Island.  There  is  no  reason  why  the  lark  should 
AOL  thrive  in  th  s  country  as  well  as  in  Europe,  and, 
if  a  few  hundred  were  liberated  in  any  of  our  fields 
in  April  or  May,  I  have  little  doubt  they  would  soon 
become  established.  And  what  an  acquisition 


NOTES    BY   THE   WAY.  153 

wonld  be  !  As  a  songster,  the  lark  is  -deserving  of  all 
the  praise  that  has  been  bestowed  upon  him.  He 
would  not  add  so  much  to  the  harmony  or  melody  of 
our  bird-choir,  as  he  would  add  to  its  blithesomeness, 
joyousness,  and  power.  His  voice  is  the  jocund  and 
inspiring  voice  of  a  spring  morning.  It  is  like  a 
ceaseless  and  hilarious  clapping  of  hands.  I  was  much 
interested  in  an  account  a  friend  gave  me  of  the  first 
skylark  he  heard  while  abroad.  He  had  been  so 
full  of  the  sights  and  wonders  of  the  Old  World  that 
he  had  quite  forgotten  the  larks,  when  one  day,  as  he 
was  walking  somewhere  near  the  sea,  a  brown  bird 
started  up  in  front  of  him  and  mounting  upward  be- 
gan to  sing.  It  drew  his  attention,  and  as  the  bird 
went  skyward,  pouring  out  his  rapid  and  jubilant 
notes,  like  bees  from  a ;  hive  in  swarming-time,  the 
truth  suddenly  flashed  upon  the  observer. 

"  Good  heavens  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  that  is  a  sky- 
lark ;  there  is  no  mistaking  that  bird." 

It  is  this  unique  and  unmistakable  character  of  the 
lark's  song,  and  its  fountain-like  sparkle  and  copious- 
ness, that  are  the  main  sources  of  its  charm. 


NOCTURNAL  INSECTS. 

How  the  nocturnal  insects,  the  tree-crickets  and 
katydids,  fail  as  the  heat  fails  !  They  are  musicians 
Jiat  play  fast  or  slow,  strong  or  feeble,  just  as  the 


154  NOTES  BY   THE   WAY. 

heat  of  the  season  waxes  or  wanes  ;  and  they  play  aa 
long  as  life  lasts  ;  when  their  music  ceases  they  are 
dead.  The  katydids  begin  in  August,  and  cry  with 
great  vigor  and  spirit  "  Katyniid,"  "  Katy-did,"  or 
"  Katy-did  n't."  Toward  the  last  of  September  they 
have  taken  in  sail  a  good  deal,  and  cry  simply,' 
"  Katy,"  "  Katy,"  with  frequent  pauses  and  resting- 
epells.  In  October  they  languidly  gasp  or  rasp, 
"  Kate,"  "  Kate,"  "  Kate,"  and  before  the  end  of 
the  month  they  become  entirely  inaudible,  though  I 
suspect  that  if  one's  ear  was  sharp  enough  he  might 
still  hear  a  dying  whisper,  "  Kate,"  "  Kate."  Those 
cousins  of  Katy,  the  little  green  purring  tree-crick- 
ets, fail  in  the  same  way  and  at  the  same  time. 
When  their  chorus  is  fullest,  the  warm  autumn  night 
fairly  throbs  with  the  soft  lulling  undertone.  I  no- 
tice that  the  sound  is  in  waves  or  has  a  kind  of 
rhythmic  beat.  What  a  gentle,  unobtrusive  back 
ground  it  forms  for  the  sharp,  reedy  notes  of  the 
katydids!  As  the  season  advances,  their  life  ebbs 
and  ebbs :  you  hear  one  here  and  one  there,  but  the 
air  is  no  longer  filled  with  that  regular  pulse-beat 
of  sound.  One  by  one  the  musicians  cease,  till,  per- 
haps on  some  mild  night  late  in  October,  you  hear  — 
jast  hear  and  that  is  all  —  the  last  feeble  note  of 
the  last  of  these  little  harpers. 


NOTES  BY   THE  WAY.  155 


LOVE  AND  WAR  AMONG  THE  BIRDS. 

IN  the  spring  movements  of  the  fishes  up  the 
gtream,  toward  their  spawning  beds,  the  females  are 
the  pioneers,  appearing  some  days  in  advance  of  the 
males.  With  the  birds  the  reverse  is  the  case,  the 
males  coming  a  week  or  ten  days  before  the  females. 
The  female  fish  is  usually  the  larger  and  stronger, 
and  perhaps  better  able  to  take  the  lead ;  among 
most  reptiles  the  same  fact  holds,  and  throughout  the 
insect  world  there  is  to  my  knowledge  no  exception 
to  the  rule.  Among  the  birds  the  only  exception  I 
am  aware  of  is  in  the  case  of  the  birds  of  prey. 
Here  the  female  is  the  larger  and  stronger.  If  you 
see  an  exceptionally  large  and  powerful  eagle,  rest 
assured  the  sex  is  feminine.  But  higher  in  the  scale 
the  male  comes  to  the  front  and  leads  in  size  and 
strength. 

But  the  first  familiar  spring  birds  are  cocks  ;  hence 
the  songs  and  tilts  and  rivalries.  Hence  also  the  fact 
that  they  are  slightly  in  excess  of  the  other  sex,  to 
make  up  for  .  this  greater  exposure  ;  apparently  no 
courting  is  done  in  the  South,  and  no  matches  are 
pre-arranged.  The  males  leave  irregularly  without 
iiny  hint,  I  suspect,  to  the  females  as  to  when  and 
where  they  will  meet  them.  In  the  case  of  the  pas- 
senger pigeon,  however,  the  two  sexes  travel  to- 
gether, as  they  do  among  the  migrating  water-fowls. 

With  the  song-birds,  love-making  begins  as  soon  as 


156  NOTES   BY   THE  WAY. 

the  hens  are  here.  So  far  as  I  have  observed,  the 
robin  and  the  bluebird  win  their  mates  by  gentle  and 
fond  approaches ;  but  certain  of  the  sparrows,  nota- 
bly the  little  social  sparrow  or  "  chippie,"  appear  to 
carry  the  case  by  storm.  The  same  proceeding  may 
be  observed  among  the  English  sparrows,  now  fairly 
established  on  our  soil.  Two  or  three  males  beset  a 
female  and  a  regular  scuffle  ensues.  The  poor  bird 
is  pulled  and  jostled  and  cajoled  amid  what  appears 
to  be  the  greatest  mirth  and  hilarity  of  her  auda- 
cious suitors.  Her  plumage  is  plucked  and  ruffled, 
the  rivals  roll  over  each  other  and  over  her,  she  ex- 
tricates herself  as  best  she  can,  and  seems  to  say  or 
scream  "  no,"  "  no,"  to  every  one  of  them  with  great 
emphasis.  What  finally  determines  her  choice  would 
be  hard  to  say.  Our  own  sparrows  are  far  less 
noisy  and  obstreperous,  but  the  same  little  comedy  in 
a  milder  form  is  often  enacted  among  them.  When 
two  males  have  a  tilt  they  rise  several  feet  in  the 
air,  beak  to  beak,  and  seek  to  deal  each  other  blows 
as  they  mount.  I  have  seen  two  male  chewinks  fac- 
ing each  other  and  wrathfully  impelled  upward  in 
the  same  manner,  while  the  *  female  that  was  the 
boon  of  contention  between  them  regarded  them  un- 
concernedly from  the  near  bushes. 

The  bobolink  is  also  a  precipitate  and  impetuous 
\*  ooer.  It  is  a  trial  of  speed,  as  if  the  female  were 
to  say,  "  Catch  me  and  I  am  yours,"  and  she  scur- 
ries away  with  all  her  might  and  main,  often  with 
three  or  four  dusky  knights  in  hot  pursuit  Whej 


uin 

NOTES   BY   THE 

she  takes  to  cover  in  the  grass  there  is  generally  a 
squabble  "  down  among  the  tickle-tops,"  or  under 
the  buttercups,  and  "  Wintersable  "  or  "  Conquedel " 
is  the  winner. 

In  marked  contrast  to  this  violent  love-making  are 
the  social  and  festive  reunions  of  the  goldfinches 
about  mating  time.  All  the  birds  of  a  neighborhood 
gather  in  a  tree-top,  and  the  trial  apparently  becomes 
one  of  voice  and  song.  The  contest  is  a  most  friendly 
and  happy  one  ;  all  is  harmony  and  gayety.  The  fe- 
males chirrup  and  twitter  and  utter  their  confiding 
"paisley"  "paisley"  while  the  more  gayly  dressed 
males  squeak  and  warble  in  the  most  delightful  strain. 
The  matches  are  apparently  all  made  and  published 
during  these  gatherings ;  everybody  is  in  a  happy 
frame  of  mind ;  there  is  nq  jealousy,  and  no  rivalry 
but  to  see  who  shall  be  gayest. 

It  often  happens  among  the  birds  that  the  male 
has  a  rival  after  the  nuptials  have  been  celebrated 
and  the  work  of  housekeeping  fairly  begun.  Every 
season  a  pair  of  phcebe-birds  have  built  their  nest  on 
an  elbow  in  the  spouting  beneath  the  eaves  of  my 
house.  The  past  spring  a  belated  male  made  des 
perate  efforts  to  supplant  the  lawful  mate  and  gain 
possession  of  the  unfinished  nest.  There  was  a  battle 
fought  about  the  premises  every  hour  in  the  day  for 
at  least  a  week.  The  antagonists  would  frequently 
grapple  and  fall  to  the  ground  and  keep  their  hold 
like  two  dogs.  On  one  such  occasion  I  came  neai 
Covering  them  with  my  hat.  I  believe  the  intruder 


158  KOTES  BY  THE  WAT. 

was  finally  worsted  and  withdrew  from  the  place. 
One  noticeable  feature  of  the  affair  was  the  apparent 
utter  indifference  of  the  female,  who  went  on  with 
her  nest-building  as  if  all  was  peace  and  harmony. 
There  can  be  little  doubt  that  she  would  hare  ap- 
plauded and  accepted  the  other  bird  had  he  finally 
been  the  victor. 

One  of  the  most  graceful  of  warriors  is  the  robin. 
I  know  few  prettier  sights  than  two  males  challeng- 
ing and  curveting  about  each  other  upon  the  grass  in 
early  spring.  Their  attentions  to  each  other  are  so 
courteous  and  restrained.  In  alternate  cnrres  and 
graceful  sallies,  they  pursue  and  circumvent  each 
other.  First  one  hops  a  few  feet,  then  the  other, 
each  one  standing  erect  in  true  military  style  while 
MB  fellow  passes  him  and  describes  the  segment  of 
an  ellipse  about  him,  both  uttering  the  while  a  fine 
complacent  warble  in  a  high  but  suppressed  key. 
Are  they  lovers  or  enemies  ?  the  beholder  wonders, 
until  they  make  a  spring  and  are  beak  to  beak  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye,  and  perhaps  mount  a  few  feet 
into  the  air,  but  rarely  actually  delivering  blows  upon 
each  other.  Every  thrust  is  parried,  every  move- 
They  follow  each  other  with  dignified 
about  the  fields  or  lawn,  into  trees  and 
upon  the  ground,  with  plumage  slightly  spread, 
breasts  glowing,  their  lisping,  shrill  war-song  just 
audible.  It  forms  on  the  whole  the  most  civil  and 
bigh-bred  tOt  to  be  witnessed  during  the  season. 

When  the  cock-robin  makes  lore  he  is  the 


NOTES   BY  THE   WAY.  159 

considerate,  deferential,  but  insinuating,  galla  -t.  The 
warble  he  makes  use  of  on  that  occasion  is  the  same, 
so  far  as  my  ear  can  tell,  as  the  one  he  pipes  when 
facing  his  rival. 


FOX  AXD  HOUND. 

I  STOOD  on  a  high  hill  or  ridge  one  autumn  day 
and  saw  a  hound  run  a  fox  through  the  fields  far 
beneath  me.  What  odors  that  fox  must  have  shaken 
out  of  himself,  I  thought,  to  be  traced  thus  easily, 
and  how  great  their  specific  gravity  not  to  have  been 
blown  away  like  smoke  by  the  breeze !  The  fox  ran 
a  long  distance  down  the  hill,  keeping  within  a  few 
feet  of  a  stone  wall ;  then  .turned  a  right  angle  and 
led  off  for  the  mountain,  across  a  plowed  field  and  a 
succession  of  pasture  lands.  In  about  fifteen  minutes 
the  hound  came  hi  full  blast  with  her  nose  in  the  air, 
and  never  once  did  she  put  it  to  the  ground  while  in 
iny  sight.  When  she  came  to  the  stone  wall  she  took 
the  other  side  from  that  taken  by  the  fox,  and  kept 
about  the  same  distance  from  it,  being  thus  separated 
several  yards  from  his  track,  with  the  fence  between 
her  and  it.  At  the  point  where  the  fox  turned 
.fcarply  to  the  left,  the  hound  overshot  a  few  yards, 
then  wheeled,  and  feeling  the  air  a  moment  with  her 
nose,  took  up  the  scent  again  and  was  off  on  his  trail 
as  unerringly  as  Fate.  It  seemed  as  if  the  fox  must 
have  sowed  himself  broadcast  as  he  went  along,  and 


160  NOTES   BY   THE   WAY. 

that  hi ,  scent  was  so  rank  and  heavy  that  it  settled 
in  the  hollows  and  clung  tenaciously  to  the  bushes 
and  crevices  in  the  fence.  I  thought  I  ought  to  have 
caught  a  remnant  of  it  as  I  passed  that  way  some 
minutes  later,  but  I  did  not.  But  I  suppose  itr  was 
not  that  the  light-footed  fox  so  impressed  himself 
upon  the  ground  he  ran  over,  but  that  the  sense  of 
the  hound  was  so  keen.  To  her  sensitive  nose  these 
tracks  steamed  like  hot  cakes,  and  they  would  not 
have  cooled  off  so  as  to  be  undistinguishable  for  sev- 
eral hours.  For  the  time  being  she  had  but  one 
sense :  her  whole  soul  was  concentrated  in  her  nose. 

It  is  amusing  when  the  hunter  starts  out  of  a  win- 
ter morning  to  see  his  hound  probe  the  old  tracks  to 
determine  how  recent  they  are.  He  sinks  his  nose 
down  deep  in  the  snow  so  as  to  exclude  the  air  from 
above,  then  draws  a  long  full  breath,  giving  some- 
times an  audible  snort.  If  there  remains  the  least 
effluvium  of  the  fox  the  hound  will  detect  it.  If  it 
be  very  slight  it  only  sets  his  tail  wagging ;  if  it  be 
strong  it  unloosens  his  tongue. 

Such  things  remind  one  of  the  waste,  the  friction 
that  is  going  on  all  about  us,  even  when  the  wheels 
of  life  run  the  most  smoothly.  A  fox  cannot  trip 
along  the  top  of  a  stone  wall  so  lightly  but  that  he 
will  leave  enough  of  himself  to  betray  his  course  to 
Jie  hound  for  hours  afterward.  When  the  boys  play 
"  hare  and  hounds  "  the  hare  scatters  bits  of  paper  to 
give  a  clew  to  the  pursuers,  but  he  scatters  himself 
much  more  freely  if  only  our  sight  and  scent  were 


NOTES   BY   THE  WAY.  161 

sharp  enough  to  detect  the  fragments. .  Even  the  fish 
leave  a  trail  in  the  water,  and  it  is  said  the  otter  will 
pursue  them  by  it.  The  birds  make  a  track  in  the 
air,  only  their  enemies  hunt  by  sight  rather  than  by 
scent.  The  fox  baffles  the  hound  most  upon  a  hard 
crust  of  frozen  snow ;  the  scent  will  not  hold  to  the 
smooth,  bead-like  granules. 

Judged  by  the  eye  alone,  the  fox  is  the  lightest 
and  most  buoyant  creature  that  runs.  His  soft 
wrapping  of  fur  conceals  the  muscular  play  and 
effort  that  is  so  obvious  in  the  hound  that  pursues 
him,  and  he  comes  bounding  along  precisely  as  if 
blown  by  a  gentle  wind.  His  massive  tail  is  carried 
as  if  it  floated  upon  the  air  by  its  own  lightness. 

The  hound  is  not  remarkable  for  his  fleetness,  but 
how  he  will  hang  !  —  often  running  late  into  the 
night  and  sometimes  till  morning,  from  ridge  to 
ridge,  from  peak  to  peak ;  now  on  the  mountain,  now 
crossing  the  valley,  now  playing  about  a  large  slope 
of  uplying  pasture  fields.  At  times  the  fox  has  a 
pretty  well-defined  orbit,  and  the  hunter  knows 
where  to  intercept  him.  Again  he  leads  off  like  a 
comet,  quite  beyond  the  system  of  hills  and  ridges 
upon  which  he  was  started,  and  his  return  is  entirely 
a  matter  of  conjecture,  but  if  the  day  be  not  more 
than  half  spent,  the  chances  are  that  the  fox  will  be 
back  before  night,  though  the  sportsman's  patience 
seldom  holds  out  that  long. 

The  hound  is  a  most  interesting  dog.  How  solemn 
and  long-visaged  he  is  —  how  peaceful  and  well-dis- 
11 


162  NOTES   BY    THE  WAY. 

posed !  He  is  the  Quaker  among  dogs.  All  the 
viciousness  and  currishness  seem  to  have  been  weeded 
out  of  him ;  he  seldom  quarrels,  or  fights,  or  plays, 
like  other  dogs.  Two  strange  hounds,  meeting  for 
the  first  time,  behave  as  civilly  toward  each  other  as 
two  men.  I  know  a  hound  that  has  an  ancient, 
wrinkled,  human,  far-away  look  that  reminds  one  of 
the  bust  of  Homer  among  the  Elgin  marbles.  He 
looks  like  the  mountains  toward  which  his  heart 
yearns  so  much. 

The  hound  is  a  great  puzzle  to  the  farm  dog ;  the 
latter,  attracted  by  his  baying,  comes  barking  and 
snarling  up  through  the  fields  bent  on  picking  a 
quarrel ;  he  intercepts  the  hound,  snubs  and  insults 
and  annoys  him  in  every  way  possible,  but  the  hound 
heeds  him  not ;  if  the  dog  attacks  him  he  gets  away  as 
best  he  can,  and  goes  on  with  the  trail ;  the  cur  bris- 
tles and  barks  and  struts  about  for  a  while,  then  goes 
back  to  the  house,  evidently  thinking  the  hound  a 
lunatic,  which  he  is  for  the  time  being  —  a  mono- 
maniac, the  slave  and  victim  of  one  idea.  I  saw  the 
master  of  a  hound  one  day  arrest  him  in  full  course, 
to  give  one  of  the  hunters  time  to  get  to  a  certain 
runway ;  the  dog  cried  and  struggled  to  free  himself 
and  would  listen  neither  to  threats  nor  caresses. 
Knowing  he  must  be  hungry,  I  offered  him  my 
lunch,  but  he  would  not  touch  it.  I  put  it  in  his 
mouth,  but  he  threw  it  contemptuously  from  him. 
We  coaxed  and  petted  and  reassured  him,  but  he 
was  under  a  spell ;  he  was  bereft  of  all  thought  or 
desire  but  the  one  passion  to  pursue  that  trail. 


NOTES  BY   THE  WAY.  163 


THE  TREE-TOAD. 

WE  can  boast  a  greater  assortment  of  toads  and 
frogs  in  this  country  than  can  any  other  land.  What 
a  chorus  goes  up  from  our  ponds  and  marshes  in 
spring !  The  like  of  it  cannot  be  heard  anywhere 
else  under  the  sun.  In  Europe  it  would  certainly 
have  made  an  impression  upon  the  literature.  An 
attentive  ear  will  detect  first  one  variety,  then  an- 
other, each  occupying  the  stage  from  three  or  four 
days  to  a  week.  The  latter  part  of  April,  when  the 
little  peeping  frogs  —  hylodes  —  are  in  full  chorus,, 
one  comes  upon  places  in  his  drives  or  walks  late  in 
the  day,  where  the  air  fairly  palpitates  with  sound ; 
from  every  little  marshy  hollow  and  spring  run  there 
rises  an  impenetrable  maze  or  cloud  of  shrill  musical 
voices.  After  the  peepers,  the  next  frog  to  appear 
is  the  clucking  frog,  a  rather  small,  dark-brown  frog, 
with  a  harsh,  clucking  note.  Their  chorus  is  heard 
for  a  few  days  only,  while  their  spawn  is  being  de- 
posited. In  less  than  a  week  they  disappear,  and  I 
never  see  or  hear  them  again  till  the  next  April. 
As  the  weather  gets  warmer,  the  toads  take  to  the 
water,  and  set  up  that  long-drawn  musical  tr-r-r-r-r-r-r- 
ing  note.  The  voice  of  the  bull-frog,  who  calls,  ac- 
cording to  the  boys,  ". jugo*  rum,"  "jug  o'rum,"  "pull 
the  plug,"  "  pull  the  plug,"  is  not  heard  much  before 
June.  The  peepers,  the  clucking  frog,  and  the  bull- 
frog, are  the  only  onf,s  that  call  in  chorus.  The 


164  NOTES   BY   THE   WAY. 

most  interesting  and  the  most  shy  and  withdrawn  of 
all  our  frogs  and  toads  is  the  tree-toad,  —  the  creai- 
ure  that,  from  the  old  apple  or  cherry-tree,  or  red 
cedar,  announces  the  approach  of  rain,  and  baffles 
your  every  effort  to  see  or  discover  him.  It  has  not 
(as  some  people  imagine)  exactly  the  power  of  the 
chameleon  to  render  itself  invisible  by  assuming  the 
color  of  the  object  it  perches  upon,  but  it  sits  very 
close  and  still,  and  its  mottled  back,  of  different  shades 
of  ashen  gray,  blends  it  perfectly  with  the  bark  of 
nearly  every  tree.  The  only  change  in  its  color  I 
have  ever  noticed,  is  that  it  is  lighter  on  a  light-col- 
ored tree,  like  the  beech  or  soft  maple,  and  darker 
on  the  apple,  or  cedar,  or  pine.  Then  it  is  usually 
hidden  in  some  cavity  or  hollow  of  the  tree,  when 
its  voice  appears  to  come  from  the  outside. 

Most  of  my  observations  upon  the  habits  of  this 
creature  run  counter  to  the  authorities  I  have  been 
able  to  consult  on  the  subject. 

In  the  first  place,  the  tree-toad  is  nocturnal  in  its 
habits,  like  the  common  toad.  By  day  it  remains 
motionless  and  concealed,  by  night  it  is  as  alert  and 
active  as  an  owl,  feeding  and  moving  about  from 
tree  to  tree.  I  have  never  known  one  to  change  its 
position  by  day,  and  never  knew  one  to  fail  to  do  so 
by  night.  Last  summer  one  was  discovered  sitting 
against  a  window  upon  a  climbing  rose-bush.  The 
house  had  not  been  occupied  for  some  days,  and  when 
the  curtain  was  drawn,  the  toad  was  discovered  and 
closely  observed.  His  light  gray  color  harmonized 


NOTES  BY   THE   WAY.  165 

perfectly  with  the  unpainted  wood-work  of  the  house. 
During  the  day  he  never  moved  a  muscle,  but  next 
morning  he  was  gone.  A  friend  of  mine  caught  one, 
and  placed  it  under  a  tumbler  on  his  table  at  night, 
leaving  the  edge  of  the  glass  raised  about  the  eighth 
of  an  inch  to  admit  the  air.  During  the  night  he 
was  awakened  by  a  strange  sound  in  his  room.  Pat, 
pat,  pat,  went  some  object,  now  here,  now  there, 
among  the  furniture,  or  upon  the  walls  and  doors. 
On  investigating  the  matter,  he  found  that  by  some 
means  his  tree-toad  had  escaped  from  under  the  glass, 
and  was  leaping  in  a  very  lively  manner  about  the 
room,  producing  the  sound  he  had  heard  when  it 
alighted  upon  the  door,  or  wall,  or  other  perpendicu- 
lar surface. 

The  home  of  the  tree-to'ad,  I  am  convinced,  is  usu- 
ally a  hollow  limb  or  other  cavity  in  the  tree ;  here 
he  makes  his  headquarters,  and  passes  most  of  the 
day.  For  two  years  a  pair  of  them  frequented  an 
old  apple-tree  near  my  house,  occasionally  sitting  at 
the  mouth  of  a  cavity  that  led  into  a  large  branch, 
but  usually  their  voices  were  heard  from  within  the 
cavity  itself.  On  one  occasion,  while  walking  in  the 
woods  in  early  May,  I  heard  the  voice  of  a  tree-toad 
but  a  few  yards  from  me.  Cautiously  following  up 
the  sound,  I  decided,  after  some  delay,  that  it  pro- 
ceeded from  the  trunk  of  a  small  soft  maple;  the 
tree  was  hollow,  the  entrance  tc  the  interior  being  a 
few  feet  from  the  ground.  I  could  not  discover  the 
toad,  but  was  so  convinced  that  it  was  concealed  in 


166  NOTES  BY   THE  WAY. 

the  tree,  that  I  stopped  up  the  hole,  determined  to  re- 
turn with  an  ax,  when  I  had  time,  and  cut  the  trunk 
open.  A  week  elapsed  before  I  again  went  to  the 
woods,  when,  on  cutting  into  the  cavity  of  the  tree,  I 
found  a  pair  of  tree-toads,  male  and  female,  and  a 
large,  shelless  snail.  Whether  the  presence  of  the 
snail  was  accidental,  or  whether  these  creatures  asso- 
ciated together  for  some  purpose,  I  do  not  know. 
The  male  toad  was  easily  distinguished  from  the  fe- 
male by  its  large  head,  and  more  thin,  slender,  and 
angular  body.  The  female  was  much  the  more  beau- 
tiful, both  in  form  and  color.  The  cavity,  which  was 
long  and  irregular,  was  evidently  their  home  ;  it  had 
been  nicely  cleaned  out,  and  was  a  snug,  safe  apart- 
ment. 

The  finding  of  the  two  sexes  together  under  such 
circumstances  and  at  that  time  of  the  year,  suggests 
the  inquiry  whether  they  do  not  breed  away  from 
the  water,  as  others  of  our  toads  are  known  at  times 
to  do,  and  thus  skip  the  tadpole  state.  I  have  sev- 
eral times  seen  the  ground,  after  a  June  shower, 
swarming  with  minute  toads,  out  to  wet  their  jackets. 
Some  of  them  were  no  larger 'than  crickets.  They 
were  a  long  distance  from  the  water,  and  had  evi- 
dently been  hatched  on  the  land,  and  had  never  been 
polliwigs.  Whether  the  tree-toad  breeds  in  trees  o* 
on  the  land,  yet  remains  to  be  determined. 

Another  fact  in  the  natural  history  of  this  creat- 
ure, not  set  down  in  the  books,  is  that  they  pass  the 
winter  in  a  torpid  state  in  the  ground,  or  in  sturnpi 


NOTES  BY   THE  WAY.  167 

and  hollow  trees,  instead  of  in  the  mud  of  ponds  and 
marshes,  like  true  frogs,  as  we  have  been  taught. 
The  pair  in  the  old  apple-tree  above  referred  to,  I 
heard  on  a  warm,  moist  day  late  in  November,  and 
again  early  in  April.  On  the  latter  occasion,  I 
reached  my  hand  down  into  the  cavity  of  the  tree 
and  took  out  one  of  the  toads.  It  was  the  first  I 
had  heard,  and  I  am  convinced  it  had  passed  the 
winter  in  the  moist,  mud-like  mass  of  rotten  wood 
that  partially  filled  the  cavity.  It  had  a  fresh,  deli- 
cate tint,  as  if  it  had  not  before  seen  the  light  that 
spring.  The  president  of  a  Western  college  writes 
in  "  Science  News,"  that  two  of  his  students  found 
one  in  the  winter  in  an  old  stump  which  they  demol- 
ished ;  and  a  person  whose  veracity  I  have  no  reason 
to  doubt  sends  me  a  specimen  that  he  dug  out  of  the 
ground  in  December  while  hunting  for  Indian  relics. 
The  place  was  on  the  top  of  a  hill,  under  a  pine-tree. 
The  ground  was  frozen  on  the  surface,  and  the  toad 
was,  of  course,  torpid. 

During  the  present  season,  I  obtained  additional 
proof  of  the  fact  that  the  tree-toad  hibernates  on  dry 
land.  The  12th  of  November  was  a  warm,  spring- 
like day  ;  wind  southwest,  with  slight  rain  in  the 
afternoon,  — just  the  day  to  bring  things  out  of  their 
winter  retreats.  As  I  was  about  to  enter  my  door  at 
dusk,  my  eye  fell  upon  what  proved  to  be  the  large 
tree-toad  in  question,  sitting  on  some  low  stone-work 
at  the  foot  of  a  terrace  a  few  feet  from  the  house.  I 
paused  to  observe  his  movements.  Presently  he 


168  NOTES   BY    THE   WAY. 

started  on  his  travels  across  the  yard  toward  the  lawn 
in  front.  He  leaped  about  three  feet  at  a  time,  with 
long  pauses  between  each  leap.  For  fear  of  losing 
him  as  it  grew  darker,  I  captured  him,  and  kept  him 
under  the  coal  sieve  till  morning.  He  was  very  act- 
ive at  night  trying  to  escape.  In  the  morning,  I 
amused  myself  with  him  for  some  time  in  the  kitchen. 
I  found  he  could  adhere  to  a  window-pane,  but  could 
not  ascend  it;  gradually  his  hold  yielded,  till  he 
sprang  off  on  the  casing.  I  observed  that  in  sitting 
upon  the  floor  or  upon  the  ground,  he  avoided  bring- 
ing his  toes  in  contact  with  the  surface,  as  if  they 
were  too  tender  or  delicate  for  such  coarse  uses,  but 
sat  upon  the  hind  part  of  his  feet.  Said  toes  had  a 
very  bungling,  awkward  appearance  at  such  times  ; 
they  looked  like  hands,  encased  in  gray,  woolen 
gloves  much  too  large  for  them.  Their  round,  flat- 
tened ends,  especially  when  not  in  use,  have  a  com- 
ically helpless  look. 

After  a  while  I  let  my  prisoner  escape  into  the 
open  air.  The  weather  had  grown  much  colder,  and 
there  was  a  hint  of  coming  frost.  The  toad  took  the 
hint  at  once,  and  after  hopping  a  few  yards  from  the 
door  to  the  edge  of  a  grassy  bank,  began  to  prepare 
for  winter.  It  was  a  curious  proceeding.  He  went 
into  the  ground  backward,  elbowing  himself  through 
the  turf  with  the  sharp  joints  of  his  hind  legs,  and 
going  down  in  a  spiral  manner.  His  progress  was 
very  slow ;  at  night  I  could  still  see  him  by  lifting 
he  grass ;  and  as  the  weather  changed  again  to  warn 


NOTES   BY  THE  WAY.  169 

with  southerly  winds  before  morning,  he  stopped 
digging  entirely.  The  next  day  I  took  him  out,  and 
put  him  into  a  bottomless  tub  sunk  into  the  ground 
and  filled  with  soft  earth,  leaves,  and  leaf  mould, 
where  he  passed  the  winter  safely,  and  came  out  fresb 
and  bright  in  the  spring. 

The  little  hylodes  or  peeping  frogs  lead  a  sort  of 
arboreal  life,  too,  a  part  of  the  season,  but  they  are. 
quite  different  from  the  true  tree-toads,  the  Hyla  ver- 
sicolor,  above  described.  They  appear  to  leave  the 
marshes  in  May,  and  to  take  to  the  woods  or  bushes. 
I  have  never  seen  them  on  trees,  but  upon  low  shrubs. 
They  do  not  seem  to  be  climbers,  but  perchers.  I 
caught  one  in  May,  in  some  low  bushes  a  few  rods 
from  the  swamp.  It  perched  upon  the  small  twigs 
like  a  bird,  and  would  leap  about  among  them,  sure 
of  its  hold  every  time.  I  was  first  attracted  by  its 
piping.  I  brought  it  home,  and  it  piped  for  one  twi- 
light in  a  bush  in  my  yard  and  then  was  gone.  I  do 
not  think  they  pipe  much  after  leaving  the  water.  I 
have  found  them  early  in  April  upon  the  ground  in 
the  woods,  and  again  late  in  the  fall. 

In  November,  1879,  the  warm,  moist  weather 
brought  them  out  in  numbers.  They  were  hopping 
about  everywhere,  upon  the  fallen  leaves.  Within  a 
small  space  I  captured  six.  Some  of  them  were  the 
hue  of  the  tan-colored  leaves,  probably  Pickering's 
kylodes,  and  some  were  darker,  according  to  the  local- 
ity. Of  course  they  do  not  go  to  the  marshes  to 
winter,  else  they  would  not  wait  so  late  in  the  season. 


170  NOTES  BY   THE  WAY. 

I  examined  the  ponds  and  marshes,  and  found  bull 
frogs  buried  in  the  mud,  but  no  peepers. 


THE  SPRING  BIEDS. 

WE  never  know  the  precise  time  the  birds  leave 
us  in  the  fall ;  they  do  not  go  suddenly  ;  their  de- 
parture is  like  that  of  an  army  of  occupation  in  no 
hurry  to  be  off ;  they  keep  going  and  going,  and  we 
hardly  know  when  the  last  straggler  is  gone.  Not 
so  their  return  in  the  spring ;  then  it  is  like  an  army 
of  invasion,  and  we  know  the  very  day  when  the  first 
scouts  appear.  It  is  a  memorable  event.  Indeed, 
it  is  always  a  surprise  to  me,  and  one  of  the  com- 
pensations of  our  abrupt  and  changeable  climate,  this 
suddenness  with  which  the  birds  come  in  spring,  in 
fact,  with  which  Spring  itself  comes,  alighting,  may 
be,  to  tarry  only  a  day  or  two,  but  real  and  genuine, 
for  all  that.  When  March  arrives,  we  do  not  know 
what  a  day  may  bring  forth.  It  is  like  turning  over 
a  leaf,  a  new  chapter  of  startling  incidents  lying  just 
on  the  other  side.  A  few  days  ago,  winter  had 
not  perceptibly  relaxed  his  hold ;  then  suddenly  he 
began  to  soften  a  little,  and  a  warm  haze  to  creep 
up  from  the  south,  but  not  a  solitary  bird,  save  the 
ivinter  residents,  was  to  be  seen  or  heard.  Next  day 
the  sun  seemed  to  have  drawn  immensely  nearer  ;  his 
veams  were  full  of  power ;  and  we  said,  "  Behold, 


NOTES   BY   THE  WAY.  171 

the  first  spring  morning !  And,  as  if  to  make  the 
prophecy  complete,  there  is  the  note  of  a  bluebird, 
and  it  is  not  yet  nine  o'clock."  Then  others,  and 
still  others,  were  heard.  How  did  they  know  it  was 
going  to  be  a  suitable  day  for  them  to  put  in  an  ap- 
pearance ?  It  seemed  as  if  they  must  have  been 
waiting  somewhere  close  by  for  the  first  warm  day, 
like  actors  behind  the  scenes,  —  the  moment  the  cur- 
tain was  lifted,  they  were  ready  and  rushed  upon  the 
stage.  The  third  warm  day,  and  behold,  all  the  prin- 
cipal performers  come  rushing  in.  Song-sparrows, 
cow-blackbirds,  grackles,  the  meadow-lark,  cedar-birds, 
the  phoebe-bird,  and  hark !  what  bird  laughter  was 
that  ?  the  robins,  hurrah !  the  robins !  Not  two  or 
three,  but  a  score  or  two  of  them  ;  they  are  following 
the  river  valley  north,  and  they  stop  in  the  trees  from 
time  to  time,  and  give  vent  to  their  gladness".  It  is 
like  a  summer  picnic  of  school  children  suddenly  let 
loose  in  a  wood ;  they  sing,  shout,  whistle,  squeal, 
call,  etc.,  in  the  most  blithesome  strains.  The  warm 
wave  has  brought  the  birds  upon  its  crest ;  or  some 
barrier  has  given  way,  the  levee  of  winter  has  broken, 
and  spring  comes  like  an  inundation.  No  doubt,  the 
snow  and  the  frost  will  stop  the  crevasse  again,  but 
only  for  a  brief  season. 

Between  the  10th  and  the  15th  of  March,  in  the 
Middle  and  Eastern  States,  we  are  pretty  sure  to  have 
one  or  more  of  these  spring  days.  Bright  days,  clear 
days,  may  have  been  plenty  all  winte'* ;  but  the  air 
Uras  a  desert,  the  sky  transparent  ice  ;  now  the  sky 


172  NOTES   BY   THE   WAY. 

is  full  of  radiant  warmth,  and  the  air  of  a  half  articu- 
late murmur  and  awakening.  How  still  the  morning 
is  !  It  is  at  such  times  that  we  discover  what  music 
there  is  in  the  souls  of  the  little  slate-colored  snow- 
birds. How  they  squeal,  and  chatter,  and  chirp,  and 
trill,  always  in  scattered  troops  of  fifty  or  a  hundred, 
filling  the  air  with  a  fine  sibilant  chorus  !  That  joy- 
ous and  childlike  "  chew,"  "  chew,"  "  chew,"  is  very 
expressive.  Through  this  medley  of  finer  songs  and 
calls,  there  is  shot,  from  time  to  time,  the  clear,  strong 
note  of  the  meadow-lark.  It  comes  from  some  field 
or  tree  farther  away,  and  cleaves  the  air  like  an  ar- 
row. The  reason  why  the  birds  always  appear  first 
in  the  morning,  and  not  in  the  afternoon,  is  that  in 
migrating  they  travel  by  night,  and  stop,  and  feed 
and  disport  themselves  by  day.  They  come  by  the 
owl  train,  and  are  here  before  we  are  up  in  the 
morning. 


A  LONE  QUEEN. 

ONCE,  while  walking  in  the  woods,  I  saw  quite 
large  nest  in  the  top  of  a  pine-tree.  On  climbing  up 
to  it,  I  found  that  it  had  originally  been  a  crow's 
nest.  Then  a  red  squirrel  had  appropriated  it ;  he 
had  filled  up  the  cavity  with  the  fine  inner  bark  of 
the  red  cedar,  and  made  himself  a  dome-shaped  nest, 
Apon  the  crow's  foundation  of  coarse  twigs.  It  ia 
probable  that  the  flying  squirrel,  or  the  white-footed 


NOTES   BY   THE  WAY.  173 

mouse,  had  been  the  next  tenants,  for  the  finish  of 
the  interior  suggested  their  dainty  taste.  But  when 
I  found  it,  its  sole  occupant  was  a  bumble-bee  —  the 
mother  or  queen-bee,  just  planting  her  colony.  She 
buzzed  very  loud  and  complainingly,  and  stuck  up 
her  legs  in  protest  against  my  rude  inquisitiveness, 
but  refused  to  vacate  the  premises.  She  had  only 
one  sack  or  cell  constructed,  in  which  she  had  depos- 
ited her  first  egg,  and  beside  that  a  large  loaf  of 
bread,  probably  to  feed  the  young  brood  with,  as 
they  should  be  hatched.  It  looked  like  Boston 
brown  bread,  but  I  examined  it,  and  found  it  to  be 
a  mass  of  dark-brown  pollen,  quite  soft  and  pasty. 
In  fact,  it  was  unleavened  bread,  and  had  not  been 
got  at  the  baker's.  A  few  weeks  later,  if  no  accident 
befell  her,  she  had  a  good  working  colony  of  a  dozen 
or  more  bees. 

This  was  not  an  unusual  incident.  Our  bumble- 
bee, so  far  as  I  have  observed,  invariably  appropri- 
ates a  mouse-nest  for  the  site  of  its  colony,  never 
excavating  a  place  in  the  ground,  nor  conveying  ma- 
terials fora  nest,  to  be  lined  with  wax,  like  the  Eu- 
ropean species.  Many  other  of  our  wild  creatures 
take  up  with  the  leavings  of  their  betters  or  strong- 
ers.  Neither  the  skunk  nor  the  rabbit  digs  his  own 
hole,  but  takes  up  with  that  of  a  woodchuck,  or  else 
hunts  out  a  natural  den  among  the  rocks.  In  Eng- 
land the  rabbit  burrows  in  the  ground  to  such  an  ex- 
Vent  that  in  places  the  earth  is  honey-combed  by 
.hem,  and  the  walker  steps  through  the  surface  into 


174  NOTES  BY   THE  WAY. 

their  galleries.  Our  white-footed  mouse  has  been 
known  to  take  up  his  abode  in  a  hornet's  nest,  fur- 
nishing the  interior  to  suit  his  taste.  A  few  of  our 
birds  also  avail  themselves  of  the  work  of  others,  as 
the  titmouse,  the  brown  creeper,  the  bluebird,  and 
the  house  wren.  But  in  every  case  they  refurnish 
the  tenement :  the  wren  carries  feathers  into  the  cav- 
ity excavated  by  the  woodpeckers,  the  bluebird  car 
ries  in  fine  straws,  and  the  chickadee  lays  down  a 
fine  wool  mat  upon  the  floors.  When  the  high-hole 
occupies  the  same  cavity  another  year,  he  deepens 
and  enlarges  it ;  the  phoebe-bird  in  taking  up  her  old 
nest  puts  in  a  new  lining;  so  does  the  robin;  but 
cases  of  reoccupancy  of  an  old  nest  by  the  last  named 
birds  are  rare. 


A  BOLD  LEAPER. 

ONE  reason,  doubtless,  why  squirrels  are  so  bold 
and  reckless  in  leaping  through  the  trees  is,  that  if 
they  miss  their  hold  and  fall  they  sustain  no  injury. 
Every  species  of  tree-squirrel  seems  to  be  capable  of 
a  sort  of  rudimentary  flying,  —  at  least  of  making 
itself  into  a  parachute,  so  as  to  ease  or  break  a  fall 
or  a  leap  from  a  great  height.  The  so-called  flying- 
squirrel  does  this  the  most  perfectly.  It  opens  its 
furry  vestments,  leaps  into  the  air,  and  sails  down 
the  steep  incline  from  the  top  of  one  tree  to  the  foot 
-)f  the  next  as  lightly  as  a  bird.  But  other  squirrels 


NOTES   BY   THE   WAY.  175 

know  the  same  trick,  only  their  coat-skirts  are  not 
so  broad.  One  day  my  dog  treed  a  red  squirrel,  in  a 
tall  hickory  that  stood  in  a  meadow  on  the  side  of  a 
steep  hill.  To  see  what  the  squirrel  would  do  when 
closely  pressed,  I  climbed  the  tree.  As  I  drew  near 
he  took  refuge  in  the  topmost  branch,  and  then,  as  I 
came  on,  he  boldly  leaped  into  the  air,  spread  himself 
out  upon  it,  and,  with  a  quick,  tremulous  motion  of 
his  tail  and  legs,  descended  quite  slowly  and  landed 
upon  the  ground  thirty  feet  below  me,  apparently 
none  the  worse  for  the  leap,  for  he  ran  with  great 
speed  and  escaped  the  dog  in  another  tree. 

A  recent  American  traveler  in  Mexico  gives  a  still 
more  striking  instance  of  this  power  of  squirrels  par- 
tially to  neutralize  the  force  of  gravity  when  leaping 
or  falling  through  the  air.  Some  boys  had  caught 
a  Mexican  black  squirrel,  nearly  as  large  as  a  cat. 
It  had  escaped  from  them  once,  and,  when  pursued, 
had  taken  a  leap  of  sixty  feet,  from  the  top  of  a  pine- 
tree  down  upon  the  roof  of  a  house,  without  injury. 
This  feat  had  lead  the  grandmother  of  one  of  the 
boys  to  declare  that  the  squirrel  was  bewitched,  and 
the  boys  proposed  to  put  the  matter  to  further  test 
by  throwing  the  squirrel  down  a  precipice  six  hun- 
dred feet  high.  Our  traveler  interfered,  to  see  that 
the  squirrel  had  fair  play.  The  prisoner  was  con- 
veyed in  a  pillow-slip  to  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  and 
the  slip  opened,  so  that  he  might  have  his  choice, 
whether  to  remain  a  captive  or  to  take  the  leap.  He 
looked  down  the  awful  abyss,  and  then  back  and 


176  NOTES   BY  THE  WAY. 

sidewise,  —  his  eyes  glistening,  his  form  crouching. 
Seeing  no  escape  in  any  other  direction,  "  he  took  a 
flying  leap  into  space,  and  fluttered  rather  than  fell 
into  the  abyss  below.  His  legs  began  to  work  like 
those  of  a  swimming  poodle-dog,  but  quicker  and 
quicker,  while  his  tail,  slightly  elevated,  spread  out 
like  a  feather  fan.  A  rabbit  of  the  same  weight 
would  have  made  the  trip  in  about  twelve  seconds ; 
the  squirrel  protracted  it  for  more  than  half  a  min- 
ute," and  "  landed  on  a  ledge  of  limestone,  where 
we  could  see  him  plainly  squat  on  his  hind  legs  and 
smooth  his  ruffled  fur,  after  which  he  made  for  the 
creek  with  a  flourish  of  his  tail,  took  a  good  drink, 
and  scampered  away  into  the  willow  thicket." 

The  story  at  first  blush  seems  incredible,  but  I 
have  no  doubt  our  red  squirrel  would  have  made  the 
leap  safely ;  then  why  not  the  great  black  squirrel, 
since  its  parachute  would  be  proportionately  large  ? 

The  tails  of  the  squirrels  are  broad  and  long  and 
flat,  not  short  and  small  like  those  of  gophers,  chip- 
munks, woodchucks,  and  other  ground  rodents,  and 
when  they  leap  or  fall  through  the  air  the  tail  is 
arched  and  rapidly  vibrates.  A  squirrel's  tail,  there- 
fore, is  something  more  than  ornament,  something 
more  than  a  flag ;  it  not  only  aids  him  in  flying,  but 
it  serves  as  a  cloak,  which  he  wraps  about  him  when 
he  sleeps.  Thus,  some  animals  put  their  tails  to 
various  uses,  while  others  seem  to  have  no  use  for 
them  whatever.  What  use  for  a  tail  has  a  wood- 
shuck,  or  a  weasel,  or  a  mouse  ?  Has  not  the  mouse 


NOTES   BY    THE   WAY.  177 

yet  learned  that  it  could  get  in  its  hole  sooner  if  it 
had  no  tail?  The  mole  and  the  meadow  mouse 
have  very  short  tails.  Rats,  no  doubt,  put  their 
tails  to  various  uses.  The  rabbit  has  no  use  for 
a  tail  —  it  would  be  in  its  way  ;  while  its  manner 
of  sleeping  is  such  that  it  does  not  need  a  tail  to  tuck 
itself  up  with,  as  do  the  'coon  and  the  fox.  The  dog 
talks  with  his  tail ;  the  tail  of  the  'possum  is  pre- 
hensile ;  the  porcupine  uses  his  tail  in  climbing  and 
for  defense  ;  the  beaver  as  a  tool  or  trowel ;  while 
the  tail  of  the  skunk  serves  as  a  screen  behind  which 
it  masks  its  terrible  battery. 


THE  WOODCHTJCK.    , 

WRITERS  upon  rural  England  and  her  familiar 
natural  history  make  no  mention  of  the  marmot  or 
woodchuck.  In  Europe  this  animal  seems  to  be  con- 
fined to  the  high  mountainous  districts,  as  on  our 
Pacific  slope,  burrowing  near  the  snow  line.  It  is 
more  social  or  gregarious  than  the  American  spe- 
cies, living  in  large  families  like  our  prairie  dog.  In 
the  Middle  and  Eastern  States  our  woodchuck  takes 
the  place,  in  some  respects,  of  the  English  rabbit, 
burrowing  in  every  hill-side  and  under  every  stone 
wall  and  jutting  ledge  and  large  bowlder,  from  whence 
it  makes  raids  upon  the  grass  and  clover  and  some- 
times upon  the  garden  vegetables.  It  is  quite  soli- 
12 


178  NOTES    BY    THE   WAY. 

tary  in  its  habits,  seldom  more  than  one  inhabiting 
the  same  den,  unless  it  be  a  mother  and  her  young. 
It  is  not  now  so  much  a  wood  chuck  as  afield  chuck. 
Occasionally,  however,  one  seems  to  prefer  the  woods, 
and  is  not  seduced  by  the  sunny  slopes  and  the  suc- 
culent grass,  but  feeds,  as  did  his  fathers  before  him, 
upon  roots  and  twigs,  the  bark  of  young  trees,  and 
upon  various  wood  plants. 

One  summer  day,  as  I  was  swimming  across  a 
broad,  deep  pool  in  the  creek  in  a  secluded  place  in 
the  woods,  I  saw  one  of  these  sylvan  chucks  amid  the 
rocks  but  a  few  feet  from  the  edge  of  the  water 
where  I  proposed  to  touch.  He  saw  my  approach, 
but  doubtless  took  me  for  some  water-fowl,  or  for 
some  cousin  of  his  of  the  musk-rat  tribe  ;  for  he  went 
on  with  his  feeding,  and  regarded  me  not  till  I  paused 
within  ten  feet  of  him  and  lifted  myself  up.  Then 
he  did  not  know  me,  having,  perhaps,  never  seen 
Adam  in  his  simplicity,  but  he  twisted  his  nose 
around  to  catch  my  scent ;  and  the  moment  he  had 
done  so  he  sprang  like  a  jumping-jack  and  rushed 
into  his  den  with  the  utmost  precipitation. 

The  woodchuck  is  the  true  serf  among  our  animals  ; 
he  belongs  to  the  soil,  and  savors  of  it.  He  is  of  the 
earth,  earthy.  There  is  generally  a  decided  odor 
about  his  dens  and  lurking  places,  but  it  is  not  at  all 
disagreeable  in  the  clover-scented  air,  and  his  shrill 
whistle,  as  he  takes  to  his  hole  or  defies  the  farm  dog 
from  the  interior  of  the  stone  wall,  is  a  pleasant  sum- 
mer sound.  In  form  and  movement  the  woodchucb 


NOTES   BY   THE 

is  not  captivating.  His  body  is  heavy  and  flabby. 
Indeed,  such  a  flaccid,  fluid,  pouchy  carcass,  I  have 
never  before  seen.  It  has  absolutely  no  muscular 
tension  or  rigidity,  but  is  as  baggy  and  shaky  as  a 
skin  filled  with  water.  Let  the  rifleman  shoot  one 
while  it  lies  basking  on  a  sideling  rock,  arid  its  body 
slumps  off,  and  rolls  and  spills  down  the  hill,  as  if  it 
were  a  mass  of  bowels  only.  The  legs  of  the  wood- 
chuck  are  short  and  stout,  and  made  for  digging 
rather  than  running.  The  latter  operation  he  per- 
forms by  short  leaps,  his  belly  scarcely  clearing  the 
ground.  For  a  short  distance  he  can  make  very  good 
time,  but  he  seldom  trusts  himself  far  from  his  hole, 
and,  when  surprised  in  that  predicament,  makes  little 
effort  to  escape,  but,  grating  his  teeth,  looks  the  dan- 
ger squarely  in  the  face. 

I  knew  a  farmer  in  New  York  who  had  a  very 
large  bob-tailed  churn-dog  by  the  name  of  Cuff.  The 
farmer  kept  a  large  dairy  and  made  a  great  deal  of 
butter,  and  it  was  the  business  of  CufF  to  spend 
nearly  the  half  of  each  summer  day  treading  tho  end- 
less round  of  the  churning-machine.  During  the  re- 
mainder of  the  day  he  had  plenty  of  time  to  sleep, 
and  rest,  and  sit  on  his  hips  and  survey  the  landscape. 
One  day,  sitting  thus,  he  discovered  a  woodchuck 
about  forty  rods  from  the  house,  on  a  steep  side-hill, 
feeding  about  near  his  hole,  which  was  beneath  a 
large  rock.  The  old  dog,  forgetting  his  stiffness,  and 
remembering  the  fun  he  had  had  with  woodchucks  in 
his  earlier  days,  started  off  at  his  highest  speed 


180  NOTES   BY   THE  WAY. 

Vainly  hoping  to  catch  this  one  before  he  could  get  to 
his  hole.  But  the  woodchuck,  seeing  the  dog  come 
laboring  up  the  hill,  sprang  to  the  mouth  of  his  den, 
and,  when  his  pursuer  was  only  a  few  rods  off,  whis- 
tled tauntingly  and  went  in.  This  occurred  several 
times,  the  old  dog  marching  up  the  hill,  and  then 
marching  down  again,  having  had  his  labor  for  his 
pains.  I  suspect  that  he  revolved  the  subject  in  his 
mind  while  he  revolved  the  great  wheel  of  the  churn- 
ing-machine,  and  that  some  turn  or  other  brought 
him  a  happy  thought,  for  next  time  he  showed  him- 
self a  strategist.  Instead  of  giving  chase  to  the  wood- 
chuck,  when  first  discovered,  he  crouched  down  to  the 
ground,  and,  resting  his  head  on  his  paws,  watched 
him.  The  woodchuck  kept  working  away  from  his 
hole,  lured  by  the  tender  clover,  but,  not  unmindful 
of  his  safety,  lifted  himself  up  on  his  haunches  every 
few  moments  and  surveyed  the  approaches.  Pres- 
ently, after  the  woodchuck  had  let  himself  down  from 
one  of  these  attitudes  of  observation,  and  resumed  his 
feeding,  Cuff  started  swiftly  but  stealthily  up  the  hill, 
precisely  in  the  attitude  of  a  cat  when  she  is  stalking 
a  bird.  When  the  woodchuck  rose  up  again  Cuff 
was  perfectly  motionless  and  half  hid  by  the  grass. 
When  he  again  resumed  his  clover,  Cuff  sped  up  the 
hill  as  before,  this  time  crossing  a  fence,  but  in  a 
low  place,  and  so  nimbly  that  he  was  not  discovered. 
Again  the  woodchuck  was  on  the  outlook,  again  Cuff 
was  motionless  and  hugging  the  ground.  As  the  dog 
nears  his  victim  he  is  partially  hidden  by  a  swell  ir 


NOTES   BY   THE   WAY.  181 

the  earth,  but  still  the  woodchuck  from  his  outlook 
reports  "  all  right,"  when  Cuff,  having  not  twice  as 
far  to  run  as  the  'chuck,  throws  all  stealthiness  aside 
and  rushes  directly  for  the  hole.  At  that  moment 
the  woodchuck  discovers  his  danger,  and,  seeing  that 
it  is  a  race  for  life,  leaps  as  I  never  saw  marmot  leap 
before.  But  he  is  two  seconds  too  late,  his  retreat  is 
cut  off,  and  the  powerful  jaws  of  the  old  dog  close 
upon  him. 

The  next  season  Cuff  tried  the  same  tactics  again 
with  like  success,  but,  when  the  third  woodchuck  had 
taken  up  his  abode  at  the  fatal  hole,  the  old  churner's 
wits  and  strength  had  begun  to  fail  him,  and  he  was 
baffled  in  each  attempt  to  capture  the  animal. 

The  woodchuck  always  burrows  on  a  side-hill 
This  enables  him  to  guard  against  being  drown e<? 
out,  by  making  the  termination  of  the  hole  higher 
than  the  entrance.  He  digs  in  slantingly  for  about 
two  or  three  feet,  then  makes  a  sharp  upward  turn 
and  keeps  nearly  parallel  with  the  surface  of  the 
ground  for  a  distance  of  eight  or  ten  feet  farther,  ac- 
cording to  the  grade.  Here  he  makes  his  nest  and 
passes  the  winter,  holing  up  in  October  or  November 
and  coming  out  again  in  April.  This  is  a  long  sleep, 
and  is  rendered  possible  only  by  the  amount  of  fat 
with  which  the  system  has  become  stored  during  the 
summer.  The  fire  of  life  still  burns,  but  very  faintly 
and  slowly,  as  with  the  draughts  all  closed  and  the 
*shes  heaped  up.  Respiration  is  continued,  but  at 
'onger  intervals,  and  all  the  vital  processes  are  nearly 


182  NOTES   BY   THE   WAY. 

at  a  stand-still.  Dig  one  out  during  hibernation 
(Audubon  did  so),  and  you  find  it  a  mere  inanimate 
ball,  that  suffers  itself  to  be  moved  and  rolled  about 
without  showing  signs  of  awakening.  But  bring  it 
in  by  the  fire,  and  it  presently  unrolls  and  opens  its 
eyes,  and  crawls  feebly  about,  and  if  left  to  itself  will 
seek  some  dark  hole  or  corner,  roll  itself  up  again, 
and  resume  its  former  condition. 


A  GOOD  SEASON  FOR  THE  BIRDS. 

THE  season  of  1880  seems  to  have  been  excep- 
tionally favorable  to  the  birds.  The  warm  early 
spring,  the  absence  of  April  snows  and  of  long,  cold 
rains  in  May  and  June,  —  indeed,  the  exceptional 
heat  and  dryness  of  these  months,  and  the  freedom 
from  violent  storms  and  tempests  throughout  the 
summer,  —  all  worked  together  for  the  good  of  the 
birds.  Their  nests  were  not  broken  up  or  torn  from 
the  trees,  nor  their  young  chilled  and  destroyed  by 
the  wet  and  the  cold.  The  drenching,  protracted 
-ains  that  make  the  farmer's  seed  rot  or  lie  dormant 
in  the  ground  in  May  or  June,  and  the  summer 
tempests  that  uproot  the  trees  or  cause  them  to  lash 
and  bruise  their  foliage,  always  bring  disaster  to  the 
birds.  As  a  result  of  our  immunity  from  these 
things  the  past  season,  the  small  birds  in  the  fall 
tfere  perhaps  never  more  abundant.  Indeed,  I  nevef 


NOTES   BY   THE  WAY.  183 

remember  to  have  seen  so  many  of  certain  kinds, 
notably  the  social  and  the  bush  sparrows.  The  latter 
literally  swarmed  in  the  fields  and  vineyards,  and  as 
it  happened  that  for  the  first  time  a  large  number  of 
grapes  were  destroyed  by  birds,  the  little  sparrow,  in 
some  localities,  was  accused  of  being  the  depredator. 
But  he  is  innocent.  He  never  touches  fruit  of  any 
kind,  but  lives  upon  seeds  and  insects.  What  at- 
tracted this  sparrow  to  the  vineyards  in  such  num- 
bers was  mainly  the  covert  they  afforded  from  small 
hawks,  and  probably  also  the  seeds  of  various  weeds 
that  had  been  allowed  to  ripen  there.  The  grape- 
destroyer  was  a  bird  of  another-  color,  namely,  the 
Baltimore  oriole.  One  fruit-grower  on  the  Hudson 
told  me  he  lost  at  least  a  ton  of  grapes  by  the  birds, 
and  in  the  western  part  of  New  York  and  in  Ohio 
and  in  Canada,  I  hear  the  vineyards  suffered  se- 
verely from  the  depredations  of  the  oriole.  The 
oriole  has  a  sharp,  dagger-like  bill,  and  he  seems 
to  be  learning  rapidly  how  easily  he  can  puncture 
iruit  with  it.  He  has  come  to  be  about  the  worst 
cherry  bird  we  have.  He  takes  the  worm  first,  and 
then  he  takes  the  cherry  the  worm  was  after,  or 
tather  he  bleeds  it ;  as  with  the  grapes,  he  carries 
none  away  with  him,  but  wounds  them  all.  He  is 
welcome  to  all  the  fruit  he  can  eat,  but  why  should 
he  murder  every  cherry  on  the  tree,  or  every  grape 
in  the  cluster  ?  He  is  as  wanton  as  a  sheep-killing 
Jog,  that  will  not  stop  with  enough,  but  slaughters 
«very  ewe  in  the  flock.  The  oriole  is  peculiarly  ex- 


184  NOTES  BY   THE   WAY. 

empt  from  the  dangers  that  beset  most  of  our  birds  ; 
its  nest  is  all  but  impervious  to  the  rain,  and  the  squir 
rel  or  the  jay  or  the  crow  cannot  rob  it  without  great 
difficulty.  It  is  a  pocket  which  it  would  not  be 
prudent  for  either  jay  or  squirrel  to  attempt  to  ex- 
plore, when  the  owner,  with  his  dagger-like  beak, 
was  about ;  and  the  crow  cannot  alight  upon  the 
slender,  swaying  branch  from  which  it  is  usually 
pendent.  Hence  the  orioles  are  doubtless  greatly  on 
the  increase. 

There  has  been  an  unusual  number  of  shrikes  the 
past  fall  and  winter ;  like  the  hawks,  they  follow  hi 
the  wake  of  the  little  birds  and  prey  upon  them.  Some 
seasons  pass  and  I  never  see  a  shrike.  This  year  I 
have  seen  at  least  a  dozen  while  passing  along  the 
road.  One  day  I  saw  one  carrying  its  prey  in  its 
feet  —  a  performance  which  I  supposed  it  incapable 
of,  as  it  is  not  equipped  for  this  business  like  a  rapa- 
cious bird,  but  has  feet  like  a  robin.  One.  wintry 
evening,  near  sunset,  I  saw  one  alight  on  the  top  of 
a  tree  by  the  road-side,  with  some  small  object  in  its 
beak.  I  paused  to  observe  it-  Presently  it  flew 
iown  into  a  scrubby  old -apple-tree,  and  attempted  to 
kmpale  the  object  upon  a  thorn  or  twig.  It  was  oc- 
cupied in  this  way  some  moments,  no  twig  or  knob 
proving  quite  satisfactory.  A  little  screech-owl  was 
evidently  watching  the  proceedings  from  his  door- 
vay,  in  the  trunk  of  a  decayed  apple-tree  ten  or  a 
dozen  rods  distant.  Twilight  was  just  falling,  and 
the  owl  had  come  up  from  his  snug  retreat  in  the 


NOTES   BY   THE  WAY.  185 

hollow  trunk  and  was  waiting  for  the  darkness  to 
deepen  before  venturing  forth.  I  was  first  advised 
of  his  presence  by  seeing  him  approaching  swiftly  on 
silent,  level  wing.  The  shrike  did  not  see  him  till 
the  owl  was  almost  within  the  branches.  He  then 
dropped  his  game,  which  proved  to  be  a  part  of  a 
shrew-mouse,  and  darted  back  into  the  thick  cover, 
uttering  a  loud,  discordant  squawk,  as  one  would  say, 
"  Scat !  scat !  scat  !  "  The  owl  alighted,  and  was, 
perhaps,  looking  about  him  for  the  shrike's  impaled 
game,  when  I  drew  near.  On  seeing  me  he  reversed 
his  movement  precipitately,  flew  straight  back  to  the 
old  tree,  and  alighted  in  the  entrance  to  the  cavity. 
As  I  approached,  he  did  not  so  much  seem  to  move 
as  to  diminish  in  size,  like  an  object  dwindling  in  the 
distance ;  he  depressed  his  plumage,  and,  with  his  eye 
fixed  upon  me,  began  slowly  to  back  and  sidle  into 
his  retreat  till  he  faded  from  my  sight.  The  shrike 
wiped  his  beak  upon  the  branches,  cast  an  eye  down 
at  me  and  at  his  lost  mouse,  and  then  flew  away.  He 
was  a  remarkably  fine  specimen,  —  his  breast  and  un- 
der parts  as  white  as  snow,  and  his  coat  of  black 
and  ashen  gray  appearing  very  bright  and  fresh.  A 
few  nights  afterward,  as  I  passed  that  way,  I  saw 
the  little  owl  again  sitting  in  his  door-way,  waiting 
*or  the  twilight  to  deepen,  and  undisturbed  by  the 
passers-by ;  but  when  I  paused  to  observe  him,  he 
law  that  he  was  discovered,  and  he  slunk  back  into 
nis  den  as  on  the  former  occasion. 


186  NOTES  BY   THE  WAY. 


SHAKESPEARE'S  NATURAL  HISTORY. 

IT  is  surprising  that  so  profuse  and  prodigal  a  poet 
as  Shakespeare,  and  one  so  bold  in  his  dealings  with 
human  nature,  should  seldom  or  never  make  a  mis- 
take in  his  dealings  with  physical  nature,  or  take  an 
unwarranted  liberty  with  her.  True  it  is  that  his  al- 
lusions to  nature  are  always  incidental  —  never  his 
main  purpose  or  theme,  as  with  many  later  poets ; 
yet  his  accuracy  and  closeness  to  fact,  and  his  wide 
and  various  knowledge  of  unbookish  things,  are  seen 
in  his  light  "touch  and  go"  phrases  and  compari- 
sons as  clearly  as  in  his  more  deliberate  and  central 
work. 

In  "  Much  Ado  about  Nothing,"  Benedick  says  to 
Margaret :  — 

"  Thy  wit  is  as  quick  as  the  greyhound's  mouth  —  it  catches." 

One  marked  difference  between  the  greyhound  and 
all  other  hounds  and  dogs  is,  that  it  can  pick  up  its 
game  while  running  at  full  speed,  a  feat  that  no  other 
dog  can  do.  The  fox-hound,  or  farm-dog,  will  run 
over  a  fox  or  a  rabbit  many  times  without  being  able 
to  seize  it. 

In  "  Twelfth  Night,"  the  clown  tells  Viola  that 

"Fools  are  as  like  husbands  as  pilchards  are  to  herrings  —  the 
husband 's  the  bigger." 

The  pilchard  closely  resembles  the  herring,  but  ia 
thicker  and  heavier,  with  larger  scales. 


NOTES   BY   THE  WAY.  187 

In  the  same  play,  Maria,  seeing  Malvolio  coming, 
Bays:  — 

"Here  comes  the  trout  that  must  be  caught  with  tickling." 

Shakespeare,  then,  knew  that  fact  so  well  known  to 
poachers,  and  known  also  to  many  an  American 
school-boy,  namely,  that  a  trout  likes  to  be  tickled, 
or  behaves  as  if  he  did,  and  that  by  gently  tickling 
his  sides  and  belly  you  can  so  mesmerize  him,  as  it 
were,  that  he  will  allow  you  to  get  your  hands  in 
position  to  clasp  him  firmly.  The  British  poacher 
takes  the  jack  by  the  same  tactics  ;  he  tickles  the 
jack  on  the  belly ;  the  fish  slowly  rises  in  the  water 
till  it  comes  near  the  surface,  when  the  poacher  hav- 
ing insinuated  both  hands  under  him,  he  is  suddenly 
scooped  out  and  thrown  upon  the  land. 

Indeed,  Shakespeare  seems  to  have  known  inti- 
mately the  ways  and  habits  of  most  of  the  wild  creat- 
ures of  Britain.  He  had  the  kind  of  knowledge  of 
them  that  only  the  countryman  has.  In  "As  You 
Like  It,"  Jaques  tells  Amiens :  — 

"  I  can  suck  melancholy  out  of  a  song  as  a  weasel  sucks  eggs." 

Every  gamekeeper,  and  every  farmer,  for  that  matter, 
knows  how  destructive  the  weasel  and  its  kind  are  to 
birds'  eggs,  and  to  the  eggs  of  game  birds  and  of  do- 
mestic fowls. 

ID  "  Love's  Labor 's  Lost,"  Biron  says  of  Boyet : — 
"This  fellow  picks  up  wit  as  pigeons  peas." 

Pigeons  do  not  pick  up  peas  in  this  country,  but  they 
do  in  England,  and  are  often  very  damaging  to  the 


188  NOTES   BY   THE  WAY. 

farmer  on  that  account.  Shakespeare  knew  also  the 
peculiar  manner  in  which  they  fed  their  young  —  a 
manner  that  has  perhaps  given  rise  to  the  expression 
"  sucking  dove."  In  "  As  You  Like  It "  is  this  pas- 


"  Celia.    Here  comes  Monsieur  Le  Beau. 

"  Rosalind.    With  his  mouth  full  of  news. 

"  Celia.    Which  he  will  put  on  us  as  pigeons  feed  their  young. 

"  Rosalind.     Then  shall  we  be  news-crammed." 

When  the  mother  pigeon  feeds  her  young  she  brings 
the  food,  not  in  her  beak  like  other  birds,  but  in  her 
crop ;  she  places  her  beak  between  the  open  mandi- 
bles of  her  young,  and  fairly  crams  the  food,  which 
is  delivered  by  a  peculiar  pumping  movement,  down 
its  throat.  She  furnishes  a  capital  illustration  of  the 
eager,  persistent  news-monger. 

"  Out  of  their  burrows  like  rabbits  after  rain  "  is 
a  comparison  that  occurs  in  "  Coriolanus."  In  our 
Northern  or  New  England  States  we  should  have  to 
substitute  woodchucks  for  rabbits,  as  our  rabbits  do 
not  burrow  but  sit  all  day  in  their  forms  under  a 
bush  or  amid  the  weeds,  and  as  they  are  not  seen 
moving  about  after  a  rain,  or  at  all  by  day ;  but  in 
England  Shakespeare's  line  is  exactly  descriptive. 

Says  Bottom  to  the  fairy  Cobweb,  in  "  Midsummei 
Night's  Dream  " :  — 

"Monsieur  Cobweb;  good  monsieur,  get  your  weapons  in  your 
Hand,  and  kill  me  a  red-hipped  humble-bee  on  the  top  of  a  thistle 
Hid,  good  monsieur,  bring  me  the  honey-bag." 

This  command  might  be  executed  in  this  country,  for 


NOTES   BY   THE    WAY.  189 

we  have  the  "  red-hipped  humble-bee,"  and  we  have 
the  thistle,  and  there  is  no  more  likely  place  to  look 
for  the  humble-bee  in  midsummer  than  on  a  thistle- 
blossom. 

But  the  following  picture  of  a  "  wet  spell "  is  more 
English  than  American  :  — 

"  The  ox  hath  therefore  stretch'd  his  yoke  in  vain, 
The  plowman  lost  his  sweat ;  and  the  green  corn 
Hath  rotted  ere  his  youth  attain'd  a  beard ; 
The  fold  stands  empty  in  the  drowned  field, 
And  crows  are  fatted  with  the  murrain  flock." 

Shakespeare  knew  the  birds  and  wild  fowl,  and 
knew  them  perhaps  as  a  hunter,  as  well  as  a  poet. 
At  least  this  passage  would  indicate  as  much :  — 

"  As  wild  geese  that  the  creeping  fowler  eye, 
Or  russet-pated  choughs,  many  in  sort, 
Rising  and  cawing  at  the  gun's  report, 
Sever  themselves  and  madly  sweep  the  sky.'* 

In  calling  the  choughs  "  russet-pated,"  he  makes  the 
bill  tinge  the  whole  head,  or  perhaps  gives  the  effect 
of  the  birds'  markings  when  seen  at  a  distance ;  the 
bill  is  red,  the  head  is  black.  The  chough  is  a  spe- 
cies of  crow. 

A  poet  must  know  the  birds  well  to  make  one  of 
his  characters  say,  when  he  had  underestimated  a 
man,  "  I  took  this  lark  for  a  bunting,"  as  Lafeu  says 
of  Parolles  in  «  All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well."  The 
English  bunting  (Emberiza  miliaria)  is  a  field  bird 
ike  the  lark,  and  much  resembles  the  latter  in  form 
»nd  color,  but  is  far  inferior  as  a  songster.  Indeed, 


190  NOTES  BY  THE  WAY. 

Shakespeare  shows  his  familiarity  with  nearly  all  the 
British  birds. 

"  The  ousel-cock,  so  black  of  hue, 

With  orange-tawny  bill, 
The  throstle  with  his  note  so  true, 
The  wren  with  little  quill." 

"  The  finch,  the  sparrow,  and  the  lark, 

The  plain-song  cuckoo  gray, 
Whose  note  full  many  a  man  doth  mark, 
And  dares  not  answer  nay." 

In  "  Much  Ado  about  Nothing  "  we  get  a  glimpse 
of  the  lapwing  :  — 

"  For  look  where  Beatrice,  like  a  lapwing,  runs 
Close  by  the  ground,  to  hear  our  conference." 

The  lapwing  is  a  kind  of  plover,  and  is  very  swift  of 
foot.  When  trying  to  avoid  being  seen  they  run  rap- 
idly with  depressed  heads,  or  "  close  by  the  ground," 
as  the  poet  puts  it.  In  the  same  scene,  Hero  says  of 
Ursula :  — 

"  I  know  her  spirits  are  as  coy  and  wild 
As  haggards  of  the  rock." 

The  haggard  falcon  (Falco  peregrinus)  is  a  species  of 
hawk  found  in  North  Wales  and  in  Scotland.  It 
breeds  on  high  shelving  cliffs  and  precipitous  rocks. 
Had  Shakespeare  been  an  "  amateur  poacher  "  in  his 
youth  ?  He  had  a  poacher's  knowledge  of  the  wild 
creatures.  He  knew  how  fresh  the  snake  appeared 
after  it  had  cast  its  skin ;  how  the  hedgehog  makes 
himself  up  into  a  ball  and  leaves  his  "prickles"  in 
Whatever  touches  him ;  how  the  butterflv  came  fron: 


NOTES    BY    THE   WAY.  191 

the  grub ;  how  the  fox  carries  the  goose ;  where  the 
squirrel  hides  his  store  ;  where  the  martlet  builds  its 
nest,  etc. 

"Now  is  the  woodcock  near  the  gin," 

says  Fabian,  in  "  Twelfth  Night,"  and 

"  Stalk  on,  stalk  on ;  the  fowl  sits," 
says  Qlaudio  to  Leonato,  in  "  Much  Ado." 

"Instruct  thee  how 
To  snare  the  nimble  marmozet," 

says  Caliban,  in  "  The  Tempest."  Sings  the  fool  in 
"Lear":  — 

"The  hedge-sparrow  fed  the  cuckoo  so  long 
That  it  had  its  head  bit  off  by  its  young." 

The  hedge-sparrow  is  one  of  the  favorite  birds  upon 
which  the  European  cuckoo  imposes  the  rearing  of 
its  young.  If  Shakespeare  had  made  the  house-spar- 
row, or  the  blackbird,  or  the  bunting,  or  any  of  the 
graniferous,  hard-billed  birds,  the  foster-parent  of  the 
cuckoo,  his  natural  history  would  have  been  at  fault. 
Shakespeare  knew  the  flowers,  too,  and  knew  their 
times  and  seasons :  — 

"When  daisies  pied,  and  violets  blue, 
And  lady  smocks  all  silver-white, 
And  cuckoo-buds  of  yellow  hue, 
Do  paint  the  meadows  with  delight.'1 

They  have,  in  England,  the  cuckoo-flower,  which 
comes  in  April  and  is  lilac  in  color,  and  the  cuckoo- 
pint,  which  is  much  like  our  "  Jack  in  the  pulpit " ; 
but  the  poet  does  not  refer  to  either  of  these  (if  he 


192  NOTES  BY   THE  WAY. 

did  we  would  catch  him  tripping),  but  to  butter-cups, 
which  are  called  by  rural  folk  in  Britain  "  cuckoo- 
buds." 

In  England  the  daffodil  blooms  in  February  and 
March  ;  the  swallow  comes  in  April  usually ;  hence 
the  truth  of  Shakespeare's  lines :  — 

"Daffodils, 

That  come  before  the  swallow  dares,  and  take 
The  winds  of  March  with  beauty." 

The  only  flaw  I  notice  in  Shakespeare's  natural 
history  is  in  his  treatment  of  the  honey-bee,  but  this 
was  a  flaw  in  the  knowledge  of  the  times  as  well. 
The  history  of  this  insect  was  not  rightly  read  till 
long  after  Shakespeare  wrote.  He  pictures  a  colony 
of  bees  as  a  kingdom,  with 

"  A  king  and  officers  of  sorts," 

(see  "  Henry  V."),  whereas  a  colony  of  bees  is  an 
absolute  democracy ;  the  rulers  and  governors  and 
"  officers  of  sorts "  are  the  workers,  the  masses,  the 
common  people.  A  strict  regard  to  fact  also  would 
spoil  those  fairy  tapers  in  "  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream,"  — 

"The  honey-bags  steal  from  the  humble-bees, 
And,  for  night-tapers,  crop  their  waxen  thighs, 
And  light  them  at  the  fiery  glow-worm's  eyes,"  — 

since  it  is  not  wax  that  bees  bear  upon  their  thighs, 
but  pollen,  the  dust  of  the  flowers,  with  which  bee? 
make  their  bread.  Wax  is  made  from  honey. 


NOTES  BY   THE  WAY.  193 

The  science  or  the  meaning  is  also  a  little  obscure 
in  this  phrase,  which  occurs  in  one  of  the  plays :  — 

"  One  heat  another  heat  expels  "  — 

as  one  nail  drives  out  another,  or  as  one  love  cures 
another. 

In  a  passage  in  "  The  Tempest,"  he  speaks  of  the 
ivy  as  if  it  were  parasitical,  like  the  mistletoe :  — 

"Now,  he  was 

The  ivy  which  had  hid  my  princely  trunk, 
And  sucked  my  verdure  out  on't." 

I  believe  it  is  not  a  fact  that  the  ivy  sucks  the  juice 
out  of  the  trees  it  climbs  upon,  though  it  may  much 
interfere  with  their  growth.  Its  aerial  rootlets  are 
for  support  alone,  as  in  the  case  with  all  climbers 
that  are  not  twiners.  But  this  may  perhaps  be  re- 
garded as  only  a  poetic  license  on  the  part  of  Shakes- 
peare ;  the  human  ivy  he  was  picturing  no  doubt  fed 
upon  the  tree  that  supported  it,  whether  the  real  ivy 
does  or  not. 

It  is  also  probably  untrue  that 

"  The  poor  beetle  that  we  tread  upon, 
In  corporal  sufferance  finds  a  pang  as  great 
As  when  a  giant  dies," 

though  it  has  suited  the  purpose  of  other  poets  be- 
sides Shakespeare  to  say  so.  The  higher  and  more 
complex  the  organization  the  more  acute  the  pleasure 
and  the  pain.  A  toad  has  been  known  to  live  for 
days  with  the  upper  part  of  its  head  cut  away  by  a 
icythe,  and  a  beetle  will  survive  for  hours  upon  the 
is 


194  NOTES   BY   THE   WAY. 

fisherman's  hook.  It,  perhaps,  causes  a  grasshopper 
less  pain  to  detach  one  of  its  legs  than  it  does  a 
man  to  remove  a  single  hair  from  his  beard.  Nerves 
alone  feel  pain,  and  the  nervous  system  of  a  beetle  is 
a  very  rudimentary  affair. 

In  "  Coriolanus  "  there  is  a  comparison  which  im- 
plies that  a  man  can  tread  upon  his  own  shadow  — 
a  difticult  feat  in  northern  countries  at  all  times  ex- 
cept *t  midday ;  Shakespeare  is  particular  to  mention 

the  t  me  of  day :  — 

"  Such  a  nature, 

Tickled  with  good  success,  disdains  the  shadow 
Which  he  treads  on  at  noon." 


FOOT-PATHS. 


FOOT-PATHS. 

AN  intelligent  English  woman,  spending  a  few 
years  in  this  country  with  her  family,  says  that  one 
of  her  serious  disappointments  is  that  she  finds  it 
utterly  impossible  to  enjoy  nature  here  as  she  can 
at  home  ;  so  much  nature  as  we  have  and  yet  no 
way  of  getting  at  it ;  no  paths,  or  by-ways,  or  stiles, 
or  foot-bridges,  no  provision  for  the  pedestrian  out- 
side of  the  public  road.  One  would  think  the  peo- 
ple had  no  feet  and  legs  in  this  country,  or  else  did 
not  know  how  to  use  them.  Last  summer  she  spent 
the  season  near  a  small  rural  village  in  the  valley 
of  the  Connecticut,  but  it  seemed  as  if  she  had  not 
been  in  the  country ;  she  could  not  come  at  the 
landsca'pe,  she  could  not  reach  a  wood  or  a  hill  or  a 
oretty  nook  anywhere  without  being  a  trespasser,  or 
getting  entangled  in  swamps  or  in  fields  of  grass  and 
grain,  or  having  her  course  blocked  by  a  high  and 
difficult  fence;  no  private  ways,  no  grassy  lanes,  no- 
body walking  in  the  fields  or  woods,  nobody  walking 
anywhere  for  pleasure,  but  everybody  in  carriages  or 
wagons. 

She  was  stopping  a  mile  from  the  village  and 
every  day  used  to  walk  down  to  the  post-office  fo 


198  FOOT-PATHS. 

her  mail ;  but  instead  of  a  short  and  pleasant  cut 
across  the  fields,  as  there  would  have  been  in  Eng- 
land, she  was  obliged  to  take  the  highway  and  face 
the  dust  and  the  mud  and  the  staring  people  in  their 
carriages. 

She  complained,  also,  of  the  absence  of  bird  voices 
—  so  silent  the  fields  and  groves  and  orchards  were 
compared  with  what  she  had  been  used  to  at  home. 
The  most  noticeable  midsummer  sound  everywhere 
was  the  shrill,  brassy  crescendo  of  the  locust. 

All  this  is  unquestionably  true.  There  is  far  less 
bird  music  here  than  in  England,  except  possibly  in 
May  and  June,  though  if  the  first  impressions  of  the 
Duke  of  Argyle  are  to  be  trusted,  there  is  much  less 
even  then.  The  duke  says :  "  Although  I  was  in 
the  woods  and  fields  of  Canada  and  of  the  States  in 
the  richest  moments  of  the  spring,  I  heard  little 
of  that  burst  of  song  which  in  England  comes  from 
the  blackcap  and  the  garden  warbler,  and  the  white- 
throat,  and  the  reed  warbler,  and  the  common  wren, 
and  (locally)  from  the  nightingale."  Our  birds  are 
more  withdrawn  than  the  English,  and  their  notes 
more  plaintive  and  intermittent.  Yet  there  are  a 
few  days  here  early  in  May,  when  the  house-wren, 
the  oriole,  the  orchard  starling,  the  kingbird,  the 
bobolink,  and  the  wood-thrush,  first  arrive,  that  are 
BO  full  of  music,  especially  in  the  morning,  that  one 
is  loath  to  believe  there  is  anything  fuller  or  finer 
even  in  England.  As  walkers  and  lovers  of  rural 
scenes  and  pastimes  we  do  not  approach  our  British 


FOOT-PATHS.  199 

cousins.  It  is  a  seven  days'  wonder  to  see  anybody 
walking  in  this  country  except  on  a  wager  or  in  a 
public  hall  or  skating-rink,  as  an  exhibition  and  trial 
of  endurance. 

Countrymen  do  not  walk  except  from  necessity 
and  country  women  walk  far  less  than  their  city  sis- 
ters. When  city  people  come  to  the  country  they  do 
not  walk,  because  that  would  be  conceding  too  much 
to  the  country;  beside,  they  would  soil  their  shoes 
and  would  lose  the  awe  and  respect  which  their  im- 
posing turn-outs  inspire.  Then  they  find  the  country 
dull ;  it  is  like  water  or  milk  after  champagne  ;  they 
miss  the  accustomed  stimulus,  both  mind  and  body 
relax,  and  walking  is  too  great  an  effort. 

There  are  several  obvious  reasons  why  the  English 
should  be  better  or  more  habitual  walkers  than  we 
are.  Taken  the  year  round,  their  climate  is  much 
more  favorable  to  exercise  in  the  open  air.  Their 
-oads  are  better,  harder,  and  smoother,  and  there  is  a 
place  for  the  man  and  a  place  for  the  horse.  There 
country-houses  and  churches  and  villages  are  not 
strung  upon  the  highway  as  they  are  with  us,  but  are 
nestled  here  and  there  with  reference  to  other  things 
than  convenience  in  "  getting  out."  Hence  the  grassy 
lanes  and  paths  through  the  fields. 

Distances  are  not  so  great  in  that  country ;  the 
population  occupies  less  space.  Again,  the  land  has 
been  longer  occupied  and  is  more  thoroughly  sub- 
dued ;  it  is  easier  to  get  about  the  fields ;  life  has 
flowed  in  the  same  channels  for  centuries.  The  Eng 


200  FOOT-PATHS. 

lish  landscape  is  like  a  park,  and  is  so  thoroughly  ru- 
ral and  mellow  and  bosky  that  the  temptation  to  walk 
amid  its  scenes  is  ever  present  to  one.  In  compari- 
son, nature  here  is  rude,  raw,  and  forbidding;  has  not 
that  maternal  and  beneficent  look,  is  less  mindful  of 
man,  runs  to  briers  and  weeds  or  to  naked  sterility. 

Then,  as  a  people  the  English  are  a  private,  do- 
mestic, homely  folk,  they  dislike  publicity,  dislike  the 
highway,  dislike  noise,  and  love  to  feel  the  grass 
under  their  feet.  They  have  a  genius  for  lanes  and 
foot-paths  ;  one  might  almost  say  they  invented  them. 
The  charm  of  them  is  in  their  books  ;  their  rural 
poetry  is  modeled  upon  them.  How  much  of  Words- 
worth's poetry  is  the  poetry  of  pedestrianism !  A 
foot-path  is  sacred  in  England  ;  the  king  himself  can- 
not close  one ;  the  courts  recognize  them  as  some- 
thing quite  as  important  and  inviolable  as  the  high- 
way. 

A  foot-path  is  of  slow  growth,  and  it  is  a  wild,  shy  , 
thing  that  is  easily  scared  away.  The  plow  must  re- 
spect it,  and  the  fence  or  hedge  make  way  for  it.  It 
requires  a  settled  state  of  things^  unchanging  habits 
/  among  the  people,  and  long  tenure  of  the  land ;  the 
rill  of  life  that  finds  its  way  there  must  have  a  peren- 
nial source  and  flow  there  to-morrow  and  the  next 
day  and  the  next  century. 

When  I  was  a  youth  and  went  to  school  with  my 
brothers  we  had  a  foot-path  a  mile  long.  On  going 
from  home  after  leaving  the  highway  there  was  a  de- 
scent through  a  meadow,  then  through  a  large  maplo 


FOOT-PATHS.  201 

and  beech  wood,  then  through  a  long  stretch  of  rather 
barren  pasture  land  which  brought  us  to  the  creek  in 
the  valley,  which  we  crossed  on  a  slab  or  a  couple  of 
rails  from  the  near  fence ;  then  more  meadow  land 
with  a  neglected  orchard,  and  then  the  little  gray 
school-house  itself  toeing  the  highway.  In  winter 
our  course  was  a  hard,  beaten  path  in  the  snow  vis- 
ible from  afar,  and  in  summer  a  well-defined  trail. 
In  the  woods  it  wore  the  roots  of  the  trees.  It 
steered  for  the  gaps  or  low  places  in  the  fences,  and 
avoided  the  bogs  and  swamps  in  the  meadow.  I 
can  recall  yet  the  very  look,  the  very  physiognomy 
of  a  large  birch-tree  that  stood  beside  it  in  the  midst 
of  the  woods;  it  sometimes  tripped  me  up  with  a 
large  root  it  sent  out  like  a  foot.  Neither  do  I  for- 
get the  little  spring  run  near  by  where  we  frequently 
paused  to  drink,  and  gathered  "  crinkle  "  root  (Den- 
taria)  in  the  early  summer,  nor  the  dilapidated  log 
fence  that  was  the  highway  of  the  squirrels,  nor  the 
ledges  to  one  side  from  whence  in  early  spring  the 
skunk  and  'coon  sallied  forth  and  crossed  our  path, 
nor  the  gray,  scabby  rocks  in  the  pasture,  nor  the 
solitary  tree,  nor  the  old  weather-worn  stump ;  no, 
nor  the  creek  in  which  I  plunged  one  winter  morning 
,n  attempting  to  leap  its  swollen  current.  But  the 
path  served  only  one  generation  of  school  children  ; 
it  faded  out  more  than  thirty  years  ago,  and  the  feet 
that  made  it  are  widely  scattered,  while  some  of  them 
have  found  the  path  that  leads  through  the  Valley 
of  the  Shadow.  Almost  the  last  words  of  one  of  these 


202  FOOT-PATHS. 

school-boys,  then  a  man  grown,  seemed  as  if  he  might 
have  had  this  very  path  in  mind  and  thought  him- 
self again  returning  to  his  father's  house  :  "  I  must 
hurry,"  he  said,  "  I  have  a  long  way  to  go  up  a  hill 
and  through  a  dark  wood,  and  it  will  soon  be  night." 

We  are  a  famous  people  to  go  "  cross  lots,"  but  we 
do  not  make  a  path,  or,  if  we  do,  it  does  not  last ;  the 
scene  changes,  the  currents  set  in  other  directions,  or 
cease  entirely,  and  the  path  vanishes.  In  the  South 
one  would  find  plenty  of  bridle  paths,  for  there 
everybody  goes  horseback,  and  there  are  few  pass- 
able roads ;  and  the  hunters  and  lumbermen  of  the 
North  have  their  trails  through  the  forest  following  a 
line  of  blazed  trees  ;  but  in  all  my  acquaintance  with 
the  country,  —  the  rural  and  agricultural  sections,  — 
I  do  not  know  a  pleasant,  inviting  path  leading  from 
house  to  house,  or  from  settlement  to  settlement,  by 
which  the  pedestrian  could  shorten  or  enliven  a  jour- 
ney or  add  the  charm  of  the  seclusion  of  the  fields 
to  his  walk. 

What  a  contrast  England  presents  in  this  respect, 
according  to  Mr.  Jennings's  pleasant  book,  "  Field 
Paths  and  Green  Lanes.".  The  pedestrian  may  go 
about  quite  independent  of  the  highway.  Here  is  a 
glimpse  from  his  pages:  "A  path  across  the  field, 
seen  from  the  station,  leads  into  a  road  close  by  the 
lodge  gate  of  Mr.  Cubett's  house.  A  little  beyond 
.his  gate  is  another  and  smaller  one,  from  which  a 
narrow  path  ascends  straight  to  the  top  of  the  hill 
and  comes  out  just  opposite  the  post-office  on  Ran 


FOOT-PATHS.  203 

more  Common.  The  Common  at  another  point  may 
be  reached  by  a  shorter  cut.  After  entering  a  path 
close  by  the  lodge,  open  the  first  gate  you  come  to 
on  the  right  hand.  Cross  the  road,  go  through  the 
gate  opposite  and  either  follow  the  road  right  out 
upon  Ran  more  Common,  past  the  beautiful  deep  dell 
or  ravine,  or  take  a  path  which  you  will  see  on  your 
left,  a  few  yards  from  the  gate.  This  winds  through 
a  very  pretty  wood,  with  glimpses  of  the  valley  here 
and  there  on  the  way,  and  eventually  brings  you  out 
upon  the  carriage-drive  to  the  house.  Turn  to  the 
right  and  you  will  soon  find  yourself  upon  the  Com- 
mon. A  road  or  path  opens  out  in  front  of  the  up- 
per lodge  gate.  Follow  that  and  it  will  take  you  to 
a  small  piece  of  water  from  whence  a  green  path 
strikes  off  to  the  right,  and  this  will  lead  you  all 
across  the  Common  in  a  northerly  direction,"  etc. 
Thus  we  may  see  how  the  country  is  threaded  with 
paths.  A  later  writer,  the  author  of  "  The  Game- 
keeper at  Home "  and  other  books,  says  :  "  Those 
only  know  a  country  who  are  acquainted  with  its 
foot-paths.  By  the  roads,  indeed,  the  outside  may 
oe  seen ;  but  the  foot-paths  go  through  the  heart  of 
the  land.  There  are  routes  by  which  mile  after  mile 
may  be  traveled  without  leaving  the  sward.  So  you 
may  pass  from  village  to  village ;  now  crossing  green 
meadows,  now  corn-fields,  over  brooks,  past  woods, 
through  farm-yard  and  rick  '  barken.'  " 

The  conditions  of  life  in   this   country  have   not 
been  favorable  to  the  development  of  by-ways.     We 


204  FOOT-PATHS. 

do  not  take  to  lanes  and  to  the  seclusion  of  the  fields, 
We  love  to  be  upon  the  road,  and  to  plant  our 
houses  there,  and  to  appear  there  mounted  upon  a 
horse  or  seated  in  a  wagon.  It  is  to  be  distinctly 
stated,  however,  that  our  public  highways,  with  their 
breadth  and  amplitude,  their  wide  grassy  margins, 
their  picturesque  stone  or  rail  fences,  their  outlooks, 
and  their  general  free  and  easy  character,  are  far 
more  inviting  to  the  pedestrian  than  the  narrow  lanes 
and  trenches  that  English  highways  for  the  most 
part  are.  The  road  in  England  is  always  well  kept, 
the  road-bed  is  often  like  a  rock,  but  the  traveler's 
view  is  shut  in  by  high  hedges,  and  very  frequently 
he  seems  to  be  passing  along  a  deep,  nicely-graded 
ditch.  The  open,  broad  landscape  character  of  our 
highways  is  quite  unknown  in  that  country. 

The  absence  of  the  paths  and  lanes  is  not  so  great 
a  matter,  but  the  decay  of  the  simplicity  of  manners 
and  of  the  habits  of  pedestrianism  which  this  absence 
implies  is  what  I  lament.  The  devil  is  in  the  horse 
to  make  men  proud  and  fast  and  ill-mannered ;  only 
when  you  go  afoot  do  you  grow  in  the  grace  of  gen- 
tleness and  humility.  Bu_t  no  good  can  come  out  of 
this  walking  mania  that  is  now  sweeping  over  the 
country,  simply  because  it  is  a  mania  and  not  a  nat- 
ural and  wholesome  impulse.  It  is  a  prostitution  of 
v.he  noble  pastime. 

It  is  not  the  walking  merely,  it  is  keeping  yourself 
ia  tune  for  a  walk,  in  the  spiritual  and  bodily  condi- 
tion in  which  you  can  find  entertainment  and  exhila- 


FOOT-PATHS.  205 

ration  in  so  simple  and  natural  a  pastime.  You  are 
eligible  to  any  good  fortune  when  you  are  in  the 
condition  to  enjoy  a  walk.  When  the  air  and  water 
tastes  sweet  to  you,  how  much  else  will  taste  sweet ! 
When  the  exercise  of  your  limbs  affords  you  pleasure, 
and  the  play  of  your  senses  upon  the  various  objects 
and  shows  of  nature  quickens  and  stimulates  your 
spirit,  your  relation  to  the  world  and  to  yourself  is 
what  it  should  be  —  simple  and  direct  and  whole- 
some. The  mood  in  which  you  set  out  on  a  spring 
or  autumn  ramble  or  a  sturdy  winter  walk,  and  your 
greedy  feet  have  to  be  restrained  from  devouring 
the  distances  too  fast,  is  the  mood  in  which  your  best 
thoughts  and  impulses  come  to  you,  or  in  which  you 
might  embark  upon  any  noble  and  heroic  enterprise. 
Life  is  sweet  in  such  moods,  the  universe  is  complete, 
And  there  is  no  failure  or  imperfection  anywhere. 


A  BUNCH  OF  HERBS. 


"  ?MA. 


A  BUNCH  OF   HERBS. 
FRAGRANT  WILD  FLOWERS 

THE  charge  that  was  long  ago  made  against  our 
wild  flowers  by  English  travelers  in  this  country, 
namely,  that  they  were  odorless,  doubtless  had  its 
origin  in  the  fact,  that,  whereas  in  England  the 
sweet-scented  flowers  are  among  the  most  common 
and  conspicuous,  in  this  country  they  are  rather  shy 
and  withdrawn,  and  consequently  not  such  as  trav- 
elers would  be  likely  to  encounter.  Moreover,  the 
British  traveler,  remembering  the  deliciously  fragrant 
blue  violets  he  left  at  home,  covering  every  grassy 
slope  and  meadow -bank  in  spring,  and  the  wild  clem- 
atis, or  traveler's  joy,  overrunning  hedges  and  old 
walls  with  its  white,  sweet-scented  blossoms ;  and 
finding  the  corresponding  species  here,  equally  abun- 
dant, but  entirely  scentless,  very  naturally  inferred 
that  our  wild  flowers  were  all  deficient  in  this  respect. 
He  would  be  confirmed  in  this  opinion,  when,  on 
turning  to  some  of  our  most  beautiful  and  striking 
native  flowers,  like  the  laurel,  the  rhododendron,  the 
columbine,  the  inimitable  fringed  gentian,  the  burn- 
ing cardinal-flower,  or  our  asters  and  golden-rod. 
14 


210  A  BUNCH   OF  HERBS. 

dashing  the  road-sides  with  tints  of  purple  and  gold, 
he  found  them  scentless  also.  "  Where  are  your  fra- 
grant flowers  ?  "  he  might  well  say.  "  I  can  find  none." 
Let  him  look  closer  and  penetrate  our  forests,  and 
visit  our  ponds  and  lakes.  Let  him  compare  our 
matchless,  rosy-lipped,  honey-hearted  trailing  arbutus 
with  his  own  ugly  ground-ivy  (Nepeta  Glechoma)  ;  let 
him  compare  our  sumptuous  fragrant  pond-lily  with 
his  own  odorless  N.  alba.  In  our  Northern  woods 
he  shall  find  the  floors  carpeted  with  the  delicate 
Linnaea,  its  twin  rose-colored,  nodding  flowers  filling 
the  air  with  fragrance.  (I  am  aware  that  the  Linnaea 
is  found  in  some  parts  of '  Northern  Europe.)  The 
fact  is,  we  perhaps  have  as  many  sweet-scented  wild 
flowers  as  Europe  has,  only  they  are  not  quite  so 
prominent  in  our  flora,  and  so  well  known  to  our 
people  or  to  our  poets. 

Think  of  Wordsworth's  "  Golden  Daffodils  "  :  — 

"I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud 

That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hills, 
When,  all  at  once,  I  saw  a  crowd, 

A  host  of  golden  daffodils, 
Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees, 
Fluttering  and  dapcing  in  the  breeze. 

"Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 
And  twinkle  on  the  milky  way, 
They  stretched  in  never-ending  line 

Along  the  margin  of  a  bay. 
Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance, 
Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance." 

No  such  sight  could  greet  the  poet's  eye  hera 


A   BUNCH   OF   HERBS.  211 

He  might  see  ten  thousand  marsh  marigolds,  or  ten 
times  ten  thousand  Houstonias,  but  they  would  not 
toss  in  the  breeze,  and  they  would  not  be  sweet- 
scented  like  the  daffodils. 

It  is  to  be  remembered,  too,  that  in  the  moister 
atmosphere  of  England  the  same  amount  of  fragrance 
would  be  much  more  noticeable  than  with  us.  Think 
how  our  sweet  bay  (Magnolia  glauca),  or  our  pink 
azalea,  or  our  white  alder  (Clethea),  to  which  they 
have  nothing  that  corresponds,  would  perfume  that 
heavy,  vapor-laden  air. 

In  the  woods  and  groves  in  England,  the  wild 
hyacinth  grows  very  abundantly  in  spring,  and,  in, 
places,  the  air  is  loaded  with  its  fragrance.  In  our 
woods,  a  species  of  dicentra,  commonly  called  squirrel 
corn,  has  nearly  the  same  perfume,  and  its  racemes 
;>f  nodding  whitish  flowers,  tinged  with  red,  are  quite 
as  pleasing  to  the  eye,  but  it  is  a  shyer,  less  abundant 
plant.  When  our  children  go  to  the  fields  in  April 
and  May,  they  can  bring  home  no  wild  flowers  as 
pleasing  as  the  sweet  English  violet,  and  cowslip,  and 
yellow  daffodil,  and  wall-flower;  and,  when  British, 
children  go  to  the  woods  at  the  same  season,  they  can 
load  their  hands  and  baskets  with  nothing  that  com- 
pares with  our  trailing  arbutus,  or,  later  in  the  season, 
with  our  azaleas  ;  and,  when  their  boys  go  fishing  or 
boating  in  summer,  they  can  wreathe  themselves  with 
nothing  that  approaches  our  pond-lily. 

There  are  upward  of  thirty  species  of  fragrant 
native  wild  flowers  and  flowering  shrubs  and  trees  in 


212  A  BUNCH   OF  HERBS. 

New  England  and  New  York,  and,  no  doubt,  many 
more  in  the  South  and  West.  My  list  is  as  fol 
lows :  — 

White  violet  ( Viola  blanda). 
Canada  violet  ( Viola  Canadensis). 
Hepatica  (occasionally  fragrant). 
Trailing  arbutus  (Epigcea  repens). 
Mandrake  (Podophyllum). 
Yellow  lady's-slipper  ( C-  parviflorum). 
Purple  lady' s-slipper  {C.  acaule). 
Squirrel  corn  (Dicentra  Canadensis). 
Showy  orchis  ( 0.  spectabilis. ) 
Purple-fringed  orchis  (P.  psycodes). 
Arethusa  (A.  bulbora). 
Calopogon  ( C.  pulchellus). 
Lady's-tresses  (Spiranthes  Cernum). 
Pond-lily  (N.  odorata). 
Honeysuckle  (Lonicera  grata). 
Twin-flower  (Linncea  borealis). 
Sugar-maple  (Acer  saccharinum) 
Linden  (Tilia  Americana). 
Locust-tree  (R.  pseudacacia). 
White  alder  (Clethea). 
Smooth  azalea  (A.  arbor  escens). 
White  azalea  (A.  vlseosa). 
Pinxter-flower  (A.  nudiflora). 
Yellow  azalea  (A.  calendulacea). 
Sweet  bay  (Magnolia  glauca). 
Mitchella-vine  (M.  repens). 
Sweet  colt's-foot  (Nardosamiapalmata). 
Pasture  thistle  ( C.  pumUum). 
False  wintergreen  (Pyrola  rotundifolia). 
Spotted  \vintergreen  (C.  maculata). 
Prince's  pine  (C.  umbellata). 
Evening  primrose  ( (Enothera  biennit). 
Hairy  loosestrife  (Lysimachia  ciliata). 
Dogbane  (Apocynum). 


A   BUNCH   OF  HERBS.  213 

Ground  nut  (Apios  tuberosa}. 
Adder's-tongue  Pogonia  (P.  ophioglossoides). 
Horned  bladderwort  (  Utricularla  cornuta). 

The  last-named,  horned  bladderwort,  is  perhaps 
the  most  fragrant  flower  we  have.  In  a  warm,  moist 
atmosphere,  its  odor  is  almost  too  strong.  It  is  a 
plant  with  a  slender,  leafless  stalk  or  scape  less  than 
a  foot  high,  with  two  or  more  large  yellow  hood  or 
helmet-shaped  flowers.  It  is  not  common,  and  be- 
longs pretty  well  north,  growing  in  sandy  swamps 
and  along  the  marshy  margins  of  lakes  and  ponds. 
Its  perfume  is  sweet  and  s^icy  in  an  eminent  degree. 
I  have  placed  in  the  above  list  several  flowers  that 
are  intermittently  fragrant,  like  the  hepatica,  or  liver- 
leaf.  This  flower  is  the  earliest,  as  it  is  certainly  one 
of  the  most  beautiful,  to  be  found  in  our  woods,  and 
occasionally  it  is  fragrant.  Group  after  group  may 
be  inspected,  ranging  through  all  shades  of  purple 
and  blue,  with  some  perfectly  white,  and  no  odor  be 
detected,  when  presently  you  will  happen  upon  a  lit- 
tle brood  of  them  that  have  a  most  delicate  and  deli- 
cious fragrance.  The  same  is  true  of  a  species  of 
oosestrife  growing  along  streams  and  on  other  wet 
places,  with  tall  bushy  stalks,  dark-green  leaves,  and 
pale  axillary  yellow  flowers  (probably  European). 
A  handful  of  these  flowers  will  sometimes  exhale  a 
sweet  fragrance  ;  at  other  times,  or  from  another  lo- 
cality, they  are  scentless.  Our  evening  primrose  is 
thought  to  be  uniformly  sweet-scented,  but  the  past 
season  I  examined  many  specimens,  and  failed  to  find 


214  A  BUNCH   OF  HERBS. 

one  that  was  so.  Some  seasons  the  sugar-maple 
yields  much  sweeter  sap  than  at  others  ;  and  even  in- 
dividual trees,  owing  to  the  soil,  moisture,  etc.,  where 
they  stand,  show  a  great  difference  in  this  respect. 
The  same  is  doubtless  true  of  the  sweet-scented  flow- 
ers. I  had  always  supposed  that  our  Canada  violet 
—  the  tall,  leafy-stemmed  white  violet  of  our  North- 
ern woods  —  was  odorless,  till  a  correspondent  called 
my  attention  to  the  contrary  fact.  On  examination, 
I  found  that  while  the  first  ones  that  bloomed  about 
May  25th  had  very  sweet-scented  foliage,  especially 
when  crushed  in  the  hand,  the  flowers  were  practi- 
cally without  fragrance.  But  as  the  season  advanced 
the  fragrance  developed,  till  a  single  flower  had  a 
well-marked  perfume,  and  a  handful  of  them  was 
sweet  indeed.  A  single  specimen,  plucked  about 
August  1st,  was  quite  as  fragrant  as  the  English  vio- 
let, though  the  perfume  is  not  what  is  known  as 
violet,  but,  like  that  of  the  hepatica,  comes  nearer 
to  the  odor  of  certain  fruit-trees. 

It  is  only  for  a  brief  period  that  the  blossoms  of 
our  sugar-maple  are  sweet  -  scented ;  the  perfume 
•seems  to  become  stale  after  a  few  days  ;  but  pass  un- 
der this  tree  just  at  the  right  moment,  say  at  night- 
fall on  the  first  or  second  day  of  its  perfect  inflores- 
cence, and  the  air  is  loaded  with  its  sweetness  ;  its 
perfumed  breath  falls"  upon  you  as  its  cool  shadow 
does  a  few  weeks  later. 

After  the  Linnaea  and  the  arbutus,  the  prettiest 
sweet-scented  flowering- vine  our  woods  hold  is  tho 


A  BUNCH   OF  HERBS.  215 

common  Mitchella  vine,  called  squaw-berry  and  par- 
tridge-berry. It  blooms  in  June,  and  its  twin  flowers, 
light  cream  color,  velvety,  tubular,  exhale  a  most 
agreeable  fragrance. 

Our  flora  is  much  more  rich  in  "orchids  than  the 
European,  and  many  of  ours  are  fragrant.  The  first 
to  bloom  in  the  spring  is  the  showy  orchis  (  0.  specta- 
tilis),  though  it  is  far  less  showy  than  several  others. 
I  find  it  in  May,  not  on  hills  where  Gray  says  it 
grows,  but  in  low,  damp  places  in  the  woods.  It  has 
two  oblong  shining  leaves,  with  a  scape  four  or  five 
inches  high  strung  with  sweet-scented,  pink-purple 
flowers.  I  usually  find  it  and  the  fringed  polygala  in 
bloom  at  the  same  time ;  the  lady's-slipper  is  a  little 
later.  The  purple-fringed  orchis,  one  of  the  most 
showy  and  striking  of  all  our  orchids,  blooms  in  mid- 
summer in  swampy  meadows  and  in  marshy,  grassy 
openings  in  the  woods,  shooting  up  a  tapering  column 
or  cylinder  of  pink-purple-fringed  flowers,  that  one 
may  see  at  quite  a  distance,  and  the  perfume  of 
which  is  too  rank  for  a  close  room.  This  flower  is, 
perhaps,  like  the  English  fragrant  orchis,  found  in 
pastures. 

No  fragrant  flowers  in  the  shape  of  weeds  have 
come  to  us  from  the  Old  World,  and  this  leads  me  to 
remark  that  plants  with  sweet-scented  flowers  are,  for 
the  most  part,  more  intensely  local,  more  fastidious 
and  idiosyncratic  than  those  without  perfume.  Our 
native  thistle  —  the  pasture  thistle  —  has  a  marked 
fragrance,  and  it  is  much  more  shy  and  limj^d  in  iti 


216  A   BUNCH  OF   HERBS. 

range  than  the  common  Old  World  thistle  that  grows 
everywhere.  Our  little,  sweet,  white  violet  (blanda) 
grows  only  in  wet  places,  and  the  Canada  violet  only 
in  high,  cool  woods,  while  the  common  blue  violet  is 
much  more  general  in  its  distribution.  How  fastidi- 
ous and  exclusive  is  the  cypripedium  !  You  will  find 
it  in  one  locality  in  the  woods,  usually  on  high,  dry 
ground,  and  will  look  in  vain  for  it  elsewhere.  It 
does  not  go  in  herds  like  the  commoner  plants,  but 
affects  privacy  and  solitude.  When  I  come  upon  it 
in  my  walks,  I  seem  to  be  intruding  upon  some  very 
private  and  exclusive  company.  The  large  yellow 
cypripedium  has  a  peculiar,  heavy,  oily  odor. 

In  like  manner  one  learns  where  to  look  for  ar- 
butus, for  pipsissewa,  for  the  early  orchis ;  they  have 
their  particular  haunts,  and  their  surroundings  are 
nearly  always  the  same.  The  yellow  pond-lily  is 
found  in  every  sluggish  stream  and  pond,  but  Nym- 
phcea  odorata  requires  a  nicer  adjustment  of  condi- 
tions, and  consequently  is  more  restricted  in  its 
range.  If  the  mullein  was  fragrant,  or  toad-flax,  or 
the  daisy,  or  blue  weed  (Echiwri),  or  golden-rod,  they 
would  doubtless  be  far  -less  troublesome  to  the  agri- 
culturist. There  are,  of  course,  exceptions  to  the 
rule  I  have  here  indicated,  but  it  holds  in  most  cases. 
Genius  is  a  specialty  ;  it  does  not  grow  in  every  soil ; 
it  skips  the  many  and  touches  the  few  ;  and  the  gift 
jf  perfume  to  a  flower  is  a  special  grace  like  genius 
3r  like  beauty,  and  never  becomes  common  or  cheap 

"  Do  hone>  and   fragrance  always  go  together  ia 


A   BUNCH   OF   HERBS.  217 

the  flowers  ?  "  Not  uniformly.  Of  the  list  of  fra- 
grant wild  flowers  I  have  given,  the  only  ones  that  the 
bees  procure  honey  from,  so  far  as  I  have  observed, 
are  arbutus,  dicentra,  sugar-maple,  locust,  and  linden. 
Non-fragrant  flowers  that  yield  honey  are  those  of 
the  raspberry,  clematis,  sumac,  white  oak,  bugloss, 
ailanthus,  golden-rod,  aster,  fleabane.  A  large  num- 
ber of  odorless  plants  yield  pollen  to  the  bee.  There 
is  honey  in  the  columbine,  but  the  bees  do  not  get  it. 
I  wonder  they  have  not  learned  to  pierce  its  spurs 
from  the  outside,  as  they  do  with  dicentra.  There 
ought  to  be  honey  in  the  honeysuckle,  but  if  there 
is  the  hive-bees  make  no  attempt  to  get  it. 


WEEDS. 

ONE  is  tempted  to  say  that  the  most  human 
plants,  after  all,  are  the  weeds.  How  they  cling  to 
man  and  follow  him  around  the  world,  and  spring  up 
wherever  he  sets  his  foot.  How  they  crowd  around 
his  barns  and  dwellings,  and  throng  his  garden  and 
jostle  and  override  each  other  in  their  strife  to  be 
uear  him.  Some  of  them  are  so  domestic  and  fa- 
miliar, and  so  harmless  withal,  that  one  comes  to 
regard  them  with  positive  affection.  Motherwort, 
catnip,  plantain,  tansy,  wild-mustard,  what  a  homely 
human  look  they  have ;  they  are  an  integral  part 
of  every  old  homestead.  Your  smart  new  place 


218  A  BUNCH   OF  HERBS. 

will  wait  long  before  they  draw  near  it.  Or  knot 
grass  that  carpets  every  old  door-yard,  and  fringes 
every  walk  and  softens  every  path  that  knows  the 
feet  of  children,  or  that  leads  to  the  spring,  or  to 
the  garden,  or  to  the  barn,  how  kindly  one  comes  to 
look  upon  it.  Examine  it  with  a  pocket  glass  and 
see  how  wonderfully  beautiful  and  exquisite  are  its 
tiny  blossoms.  It  loves  the  human  foot,  and  when 
the  path  or  the  place  is  long  disused  other  plants 
usurp  the  ground. 

The  gardener  and  the  farmer  are  ostensibly  the 
greatest  enemies  of  the  weeds,  but  they  are  in  reality 
their  best  friends.  Weeds,  like  rats  and  mice,  in 
creaseand  spread  enormously  in  a  cultivated  country. 
They  have  better  food,  more  sunshine,  and  more  aids 
in  getting  themselves  disseminated.  They  are  sent 
from  one  end  of  the  land  to  the  other  in  seed  grain 
of  various  kinds,  and  they  take  their  share,  and 
more  too,  if  they  can  get  it,  of  the  phosphates  and 
stable  manures.  How  sure,  also,  they  are  to  survive 
any  war  of  extermination  that  is  waged  against  them. 
In  yonder  field  is  ten  thousand  and  one  Canada 
thistles.  The  farmer  goes  resolutely  to  work  and 
destroys  ten  thousand  and  thinks  the  work  is  finished, 
but  he  has  done  nothing  till  he  has  destroyed  the  ten 
thousand  and  one.  This  one  will  keep  up  the  stock 
and  again  cover  his  fields  with  thistles. 

Weeds  are  Nature's  makeshift.  She  rejoices  in  the 
grass  and  the  grain,  but  when  these  fail  to  cover  hei 
nakedness,  she  resorts  to  weeds.  It  is  in  her  plan  or 


A  BUNCH   OF   HERBS.  219 

a  part  of  her  economy  to  keep  the  ground  constantly 
covered  with  vegetation  of  some  sort,  and  she  has 
layer  upon  layer  of  seeds  in  the  soil  for  this  purpose, 
and  the  wonder  is  that  each  kind  lies  dormant  until 
it  is  wanted.  If  I  uncover  the  earth  in  any  of  my 
fields,  ragweed  and  pigweed  (Amaranth)  spring  up ; 
if  these  are  destroyed,  harvest  grass,  or  quack  grass, 
or  purslane,  appears.  The  spade  or  plow  that  turns 
these  under  it  is  sure  to  turn  up  some  other  variety, 
as  chickweed,  sheep-sorrel,  or  goose-foot.  The  soil 
is  a  store-house  of  seeds. 

The  old  farmers  say  that  wood-ashes  will  bring  in 
the  white  clover,  and  it  will ;  the  germs  are  in  the 
soil  wrapped  in  a  profound  slumber,  but  this  stimulus 
tickles  them  until  they  awake.  Stramonium  has 
been  known  to  start  up  on  the  site  of  an  old  farm 
building,  when  it  had  not  been  seen  in  that  locality 
for  thirty  years.  I  have  been  told  that  a  farmer 
somewhere  in  New  England,  in  digging  a  well  came 
at  a  great  depth  upon  sand  like  that  of  the  sea-shore; 
it  was  thrown  out,  and  in  due  time  there  sprang  from 
it  a  marine  plant.  I  have  never  seen  earth  taken 
from  so  great  a  depth  that  it  would  not  before  the 
end  of  the  season  be  clothed  with  a  crop  of  weeds. 
Weeds  are  so  full  of  expedients,  and  the  one  engross- 
ing purpose  with  them  is  to  multiply.  The  wild 
onion  multiplies  at  both  ends,  at  the  top  by  seed,  and 
At  the  bottom  by  offshoots.  Toad-flax  travels  under 
ground  and  above  ground.  Never  allow  a  seed  to 
ripen  and  yet  it  will  cover  your  field.  Cut  off  the 


220  A  BUNCH   OF  HERBS. 

head  of  the  wild  carrot,  and  in  a  week  or  two  there 
are  five  heads  in  room  of  this  one ;  cut  off  these  and 
by  fall  there  are  ten  looking  defiance  at  you  from  the 
Bame  root.  Plant  corn  in  August,  and  it  will  go  for- 
ward with  its  preparations  as  if  it  had  the  whole 
season  before  it.  Not  so  with  the  weeds ;  they  have 
learned  better.  If  amaranth,  or  abutilon,  or  bur- 
dock, gets  a  late  start  it  makes  great  haste  to  develop 
its  seed  ;  it  foregoes  its  tall  stalk  and  wide  flaunting 
growth,  and  turns  all  its  energies  into  keeping  up  the 
succession  of  the  species.  Certain  fields  under  the 
plow  are  always  infested  with  "  blind  nettles  "  (  Gali* 
opsis),  others  with  wild  buckwheat,  black-bindweed, 
or  cockle.  The  seed  lies  dormant  under  the  sward, 
the  warmth  and  the  moisture  affect  it  not  until  other 
conditions  are  fulfilled. 

The  way  in  which  one  plant  thus  keeps  another 
down  is  a  great  mystery.  Germs  lie  there  in  the 
soil  and  resist  the  stimulating  effect  of  the  sun  and 
the  rains  for  years,  and  show  no  sign.  Presently 
something  whispers  to  them,  "Arise,  your  chance 
has  come  ;  the  coast  is  clear ;  "'  and  they  are  up  and 
doing  in  a  twinkling. 

Weeds  are  great  travelers;  they  are,  indeed,  the 
tramps  of  the  vegetable  world.  They  are  going  east, 
west,  north,  south ;  they  walk ;  they  fly  ;  they  swim  ; 
they  steal  a  ride ;  they  travel  by  rail,  by  flood,  by 
wind ;  they  go  under  ground,  and  they  go  above, 
Across  lots,  and  by  the  highway.  But,  like  other 
tramps,  they  find  it  safest  by  the  highway ;  in  the 


A  BUNCH   OF  HERBS.  221 

fields  they  are  intercepted  and  cut  off ;  but  on  the 
public  road,  every  boy,  every  passing  herd  of  sheep 
or  cows,  gives  them  a  lift.  Hence  the  incursion  of  a 
new  weed  is  generally  first  noticed  along  the  high- 
way or  the  railroad.  In  Orange  County  I  saw  from 
the  car  window  a  field  overrun  with  what  I  took  to 
be  the  branching  white  mullein  (  V.  lychnitis).  Gray 
says  it  is  found  in  Pennsylvania  and  at  the  head  of 
Oueida  Lake.  Doubtless  it  had  come  by  rail  from 
one  place  or  the  other.  Our  botanist  says  of  the 
bladder  campion  (Silene  inflatd),  a  species  of  pink, 
that  it  has  been  naturalized  around  Boston  ;  but  it  is 
now  much  farther  west,  and  I  know  fields  along  the 
Hudson  overrun  with  it.  Streams  and  water-courses 
are  the  natural  highway  of  the  weeds.  Some  years 
ago,  and  by  some  means  or  other,  the  viper  bugloss, 
or  blue  weed  (Echium),  which  is  said  to  be  a  trouble- 
some weed  in  Virginia,  effected  a  lodgment  near  the 
head  of  the  Esopus  Creek,  a  tributary  of  the  Hudson. 
From  this  point  it  has  made  its  way  down  the  stream, 
overrunning  its  banks  and  invading  meadows  and  cul- 
tivated fields,  and  proving  a  serious  obstacle  to  the 
farmer.  All  the  gravelly,  sandy  margins  and  islands 
of  the  Esopus,  sometimes  acres  in  extent,  are  in  June 
ind  July  blue  with  it,  and  rye  and  oats  and  grass  in 
the  near  fields  find  it  a  serious  competitor  for  posses- 
sion of  the  soil.  It  has  gone  down  the  Hudson,  and 
s  appearing  in  the  fields  along  its  shores.  The  tides 
carry  it  up  the  mouths  of  the  streams  where  it  takes 
root;  the  winds,  or  the  birds,  or  other  agencies,  in 


222  A  BUNCH  OF  HERBS. 

time  give  it  another  lift,  so  that  it  is  slowly  but  surely 
making  its  way  inland.  The  bugloss  belongs  to 
what  may  be  called  beautiful  weeds,  despite  its  rough 
and  bristly  stalk.  Its  flowers  are  deep  violet-blue, 
the  stamens  exserted,  as  the  botanists  say,  that  is, 
projected  beyond  the  mouth  of  the  corolla,  with 
Bhowy  red  anthers.  This  bit  of  red,  mingling  with 
the  blue  of  the  corolla,  gives  a  very  rich,  warm  pur- 
ple hue  to  the  flower,  that  is  especially  pleasing  at  a 
little  distance.  The  best  thing  I  know  about  this 
weed  besides  its  good  looks  is  that  it  yields  honey  or 
pollen  to  the  bee. 

Another  foreign  plant  that  the  Esopus  Creek  has 
distributed  along  its  shores  and  carried  to  the  Hudson 
is  saponaria,  known  as  "  Bouncing  Bet."  It  is  a 
common,  and,  in  places,  a  troublesome  weed  in  this 
valley.  Bouncing  Bet  is.  perhaps,  its  English  name, 
as  the  pink -white  complexion  of  its  flowers  with 
their  perfume  and  the  coarse,  robust  character  of  the 
plant  really  give  it  a  kind  of  English  feminine  come- 
liness and  bounce.  It  looks  like  a  Yorkshire  house- 
maid. Still  another  plant  in  nay  section,  which  I  no- 
tice has  been  widely  distributed  by  the  agency  of 
water,  is  the  spiked  loosestrife  (L.  salicaria).  It  first 
appeared  many  years  ago  along  the  Wallkill ;  now  it 
may  be  seen  upon  many  of  its  tributaries,  and  all 
along  its  banks,  and  in  many  of  the  marshy  bays  and 
coves  along  the  Hudson,  its  great  masses  of  purple- 
red  bloom  in  middle  and  late  summer  affording  a 
welcome  relief  to  the  traveler's  eye.  It  also  belongs 


A   BUNCH    OF   HERBS.  223 

to  the  class  of  beautiful  weeds.  It  grows  rank  and 
tall,  in  dense  communities,  and  always  presents  the 
eye  with  a  generous  mass  of  color.  In  places,  the 
marshes  and  creek  banks  are  all  aglow  with  it,  its 
wand-like  spikes  of  flowers  shooting  up  and  uniting 
in  volumes  or  pyramids  of  still  flame.  Its  petals, 
when  examined  closely,  present  a  curious  wrinkled  or 
or  crumpled  appearance,  like  newly-washed  linen ; 
but  when  massed  the  effect  is  eminently  pleasing. 
It  also  came  from  abroad,  probably  first  brought  to 
this  country  as  a  garden  or  ornamental  plant. 

As  a  curious  illustration  of  how  weeds  are  carried 
from  one  end  of  the  earth  to  the  other,  Sir  Joseph 
Hooker  relates  this  circumstance :  "  On  one  occa- 
sion," he  says,  "  landing  on  a  small  uninhabited  isl- 
and, nearly  at  the  Antipodes,  the  first  evidence  I  met 
with  of  its  having  been  previously  visited  by  man 
was  the  English  chick  weed ;  and  this  I  traced  to  a 
mound  that  marked  the  grave  of  a  British  sailor,  and 
that  was  covered  with  the  plant,  doubtless  the  off- 
spring of  seed  that  had  adhered  to  the  spade  or  mat- 
tock with  which  the  grave  had  been  dug." 

Ours  is  a  weedy  country  because  it  is  a  roomy 
country.  Weeds  love  a  wide  margin,  and  they  find 
;t  here.  You  shall  see  more  weeds  in  one  day's  travel 
n  this  country  than  in  a  week's  journey  in  Europe. 
Our  culture  of  the  soil  is  not  so  close  and  thorough, 
our  occupancy  not  so  entire  and  exclusive.  The 
weeds  take  up  with  the  farmers'  leavings,  and  find 
good  fare.  One  may  see  a  large  slice  taken  from  a 


224  A   BUNCH   OF   HERBS. 

field  by  elecampane,  or  by  teasle,  or  milkweed; 
whole  acres  given  up  to  whiteweed,  golden-rod,  wild 
carrots,  or  the  ox-eye  daisy ;  meadows  overrun  with 
bear-weed  ( V.  viride),  and  sheep  pastures  nearly 
ruined  by  St.  John's-wort  or  the  Canada  thistle.  Our 
farms  are  so  large  and  our  husbandry  so  loose  that 
we  do  not  mind  these  things.  By  and  by  we  shall 
clean  them  out.  When  Sir  Joseph  Hooker  landed 
in  New  England  a  few  years  ago,  he  was  surprised 
to  find  how  the  European  plants  nourished  there.  He 
found  the  wild  chiccory  growing  far  more  luxuriantly 
than  he  had  ever  seen  it  elsewhere,  "  forming  a  tan- 
gled mass  of  stems  and  branches,  studded  with  tor- 
quoise-blue  blossoms,  and  covering  acres  of  ground." 
This  is  one  of  the  many  weeds  that  Emerson  binds 
into  a  bouquet,  in  his  "  Humble-Bee  " :  — 

"  Succory  to  match  the  sky, 
Columbine  with  horn  of  honey, 
Scented  fern  and  agrimony, 
Clover,  catchfly,  adder's-tongue, 
And  brier-roses,  dwelt  among." 

A  less  accurate  poet  than  Emerson  would  probably 
have  let  his  reader  infer  that  the  bumble-bee  gathered 
honey  from  all  these  plants,  but  Emerson  is  careful 
*o  say  only  that  she  dwelt  among  them.  Succory  is 
t  ne  of  Virgil's  weeds  also,  — 

"And  spreading  succ'ry  chokes  the  rising  field." 

Is  there  not  something  in  our  soil  and  climate 
exceptionally  favorable  to  weeds  —  something  harsh, 
nngenial,  sharp-toothed,  that  is  akin  to  them  ?  Ho* 


A   BUNCH  OF  HERBS.  225 

woody  and  rank  and  fibrous  many  varieties  become, 
lasting  the  whole  season,  and  standing  up  stark  and 
stiff  through  the  deep  winter  snows,  —  desiccated, 
preserved  by  our  dry  air !  Do  nettles  and  thistles 
bite  so  sharply  in  any  other  country  ?  Let  the  farmer 
tell  you  how  they  bite  of  a  dry  midsummer  day  when 
he  encounters  them  in  his  wheat  or  oat  harvest. 

Yet  it  is  a  fact  that  all  our  more  pernicious  weeds, 
like  our  vermin,  are  of  Old  World  origin.  They 
hold  up  their  heads  and  assert  themselves  here,  and 
take  their  fill  of  riot  and  license ;  they  are  avenged 
for  their,  long  years  of  repression  by  the  stern  hand 
of  European  agriculture.  We  have  hardly  a  weed 
we  can  call  our  own  ;  I  recall  but  three  that  are  at 
all  noxious  or  troublesome,  namely,  milkweed,  rag- 
weed, and  golden -rod ;  but  who  would  miss  the  latter 
from  our  fields  and  highways^? 

"  Along  the  road-side,  like  the  flowers  of  gold 
That  tawny  Incas  for  their  gardens  wrought,     . 
Heavy  with  sunshine  droops  the  golden-rod," 

sings  Whittier.  In  Europe  our  golden-rod  is  culti- 
vated in  the  flower-gardens,  as  well  it  might  be.  The 
native  species  is  found  mainly  in  woods,  and  is  much 
ess  showy  than  ours. 

Our  milkweed  is  tenacious  of  life ;  its  roots  lie 
deep,  as  if  to  get  away  from  the  plow,  but  it  seldom 
infests  cultivated  crops.  Then  its  stalk  is  so  full  of 
milk  and  its  pod  so  full  of  silk  that  one  cannot  but 
ascribe  good  intentions  to  it,  if  it  does  sometimes  over- 
run the  meadow. 
15 


226  A   BUNCH   OF  HERBS. 

"In  dusty  pods  the  milkweed 
Its  hidden  silk  has  spun," 

sings  «H  H.,"  in  her  "September." 

Of  our  ragweed  not  much  can  be  set  down  that  is 
complimentary,  except  that  its  name  in  the  botany  is 
Ambrosia,  food  of  the  gods.  It  must  be  the  food  of 
the  gods  if  of  anything,  for,  so  far  as  I  have  observed, 
nothing  terrestrial  eats  it,  not  even  billy-goats.  (Yet, 
a  correspondent  writes  me  that  in  Kentucky  the  cat- 
tle eat  it  when  hard  pressed,  and  that  a  certain  old 
farmer  there,  one  season  when  the  hay  crop  failed, 
cut  and  harvested  tons  of  it  for  his  stock  in  winter. 
It  is  said  that  the  milk  and  butter  made  from  such 
hay  is  not  at  all  suggestive  of  the  traditional  Am- 
brosia !)  It  is  the  bane  of  asthmatic  patients,  but  the 
gardener  makes  short  work  of  it.  It  is  about  the 
only  one  of  our  weeds  that  follows  the  plow  and  the 
harrow,  and,  except  that  it  is  easily  destroyed,  I 
would  suspect  it  to  be  an  immigrant  from  the  Old 
World.  Our  fleabane  is  a  troublesome  weed  at  times, 
but  good  husbandry  has  little  to  dread  from  it. 

But  all  the  other  outlaws  of  the  farm  and  garden 
come  to  us  from  over  seas  ;  and  what  a  long  list  it  is 

The  common  thistle,  Gill, 

The  Canada  thistle,  Nightshade, 

Burdock,  Buttercup, 

Yellow  dock,  Dandelion, 

Wild  carrot,  Wild  mustard, 

Ox-eye  daisy,  Shepherd's  purse, 

Cliamomile,  St.  John's-wort, 

The  mullein,  Chickweed, 


A   BUNCH   OF  HERBS.  227 

Dead  nettle  (Lamium),  Purslane, 

Hemp  nettle  (Galiqpsis'),  Mallow, 

Elecampane,  Darnel, 

Plantain,  Poison  hemlock, 

Motherwort,  Hop-clover, 

Stramonium,  Yarrow, 

Catnip,  Wild  radish, 

Blue-weed,  Wild  parsnip, 

Stick-seed,  Chiccory, 

Hound's-tongue,  Live-forever, 

Henbane,  Toad-flax, 

Pigweed,  Sheep-sorrel, 

Quitch  grass,  May-weed. 

and  others  less  noxious.  To  offset  this  list  we  have- 
given  Europe  the  vilest  of  all  weeds,  a  parasite  that 
sucks  up  human  blood,  tobacco.  Now  if  they  catch, 
the  Colorado  beetle  of  us,  it  will  go  far  toward  pay- 
ing them  off  for  the  rats  and  the  mice,  and  for  other 
pests  in  our  houses. 

The  more  attractive  and  pretty  of  the  British, 
weeds,  as  the  common  daisy,  of  which  the  poets  have 
made  so  much,  the  larkspur,  which  is  a  pretty  corn- 
field weed,  and  the  scarlet  field-poppy  which  flowers 
all  summer,  and  is  so  taking  amid  the  ripening  grain, 
have  not  immigrated  to  our  shores.  Like  a  certain 
sweet  rusticity  and  charm  of  European  rural  life, 
they  do  not  thrive  readily  under  our  skies.  Our  flea- 
bane  (Erigenon  Canadensis)  has  become  a  common 
road-side  weed  in  England,  and  a  few  other  of  our 
native  less  known  plants  have  gained  a  foothold  in 
the  Old  World.  Our  beautiful  jewel-weed  (Impa- 
tiens)  has  recently  appeared  along  certain  of  the  Eng- 
lish rivers. 


228  A   BUNCH   OF   HERBS. 

Poke-weed  is  a  native  American,  and  what  a  lusty, 
royal  plant  it  is !  It  never  invades  cultivated  fields 
but  hovers  about  the  borders  and  looks  over  the 
fences  like  a  painted  Indian  sachem.  Thoreau  cov- 
eted its  strong  purple  stalk  for  a  cane,  and  the  robins 
eat  its  dark  crimson-juiced  berries. 

It  is  commonly  believed  that  the  mullein  is  indig- 
enous to  this  country,  for  have  we  not  heard  that  i 
is  cultivated  in  European  gardens,  and  christened  the 
American  velvet  plant?  Yet  it,  too,  seems  to  have 
come  over  with  the  pilgrims,  and  is  most  abundant  in 
the  older  parts  of  the  country.  It  abounds  through- 
out Europe  and  Asia,  and  had  its  economic  uses  with 
the  ancients.  The  Greeks  made  lamp  wicks  of  its 
Jried  leaves,  and  the  Romans  dipped  its  dried  stalk 
in  tallow  for  funeral  torches.  It  affects  dry  uplands 
in  this  country,  and,  as  it  takes  two  years  to  mature, 
it  is  not  a  troublesome  weed  in  cultivated  crops. 
The  first  year  it  sits  low  upon  the  ground  in  its 
coarse  flannel  leaves,  and  makes  ready ;  if  the  plow 
,3omes  along  now  its  career  is  ended.  The  second 
season  it  starts  upward  its  tall  stalk,  which  in  late 
summer  is  thickly  set  with  small  yellow  flowers,  and 
in  fall  is  charged  with  myriads  of  fine  black  seeds. 
"  As  full  as  a  dry  mullein  stalk  of  seeds  "  is  almost 
equivalent  to  saying,  "  as  numerous  as  the  sands  upon 
the  sea-shore." 

Perhaps  the  most  notable  thing  about  the  weeds  that 
have  come  to  us  from  the  Old  World,  when  compared 
our  native  species,  is  their  persistence,  not  to  saj 


A   BUNCH   OF  HERBS.  229 

pugnacity.  They  fight  for  the  soil ;  they  plant  colo- 
nies here  and  there  and  will  not  be  rooted  out.  Our 
native  weeds  are  for  the  most  part  shy  and  harmless, 
and  retreat  before  cultivation,  but  the  European  out- 
laws follow  man  like  vermin  ;  they  hang  to  his  coat- 
skirts,  his  sheep  transport  them  in  their  wool,  his  cow 
and  horse  in  tail  and  mane.  As  I  have  before  said, 
it  is  as  with  the  rats  and  mice.  The  American  rat 
is  in  the  woods  and  is  rarely  seen  even  by  woodmen, 
and  the  native  mouse  barely  hovers  upon  the  out- 
skirts of  civilization  ;  while  the  Old  World  species 
defy  our  traps  and  our  poison,  and  have  usurped  the 
land.  So  with  the  weeds.  Take  the  thistles,  for  in- 
stance ;  the  common  and  abundant  one  everywhere, 
in  fields  and  along  highways,  is  the  European  spe- 
cies, while  the  native  thistles,  swamp  thistle,  pasture 
thistle,  etc.,  are  much  more  shy,  and  are  not  at  all 
troublesome.  The  Canada  thistle,  too,  which  came 
to  us  by  way  of  Canada,  what  a  pest,  what  a  usurper, 
what  a  defier  of  the  plow  and  the  harrow  !  I  know 
of  but  one  effectual  way  to  treat  it ;  put  on  a  pair  of 
buckskin  gloves,  and  pull  up  every  plant  that  shows 
itself ;  this  will  effect  a  radical  cure  in  two  summers. 
Of  course  the  plow  or  the  scythe,  if  not  allowed  to 
rest  more  than  a  month  at  a  time,  will  finally  con- 
quer it. 

Or  take  the  common  St.  John's-wort  (Hypericum 
perforation),  how  has  it  established  itself  in  our 
fields  and  become  a  most  pernicious  weed,  very  diffi- 
'ult  to  extirpate,  while  the  native  species  are  quite 


230  A   BUNCH  OF   HERBS. 

rare,  and  seldom  or  never  invade  cultivated  fields, 
being  found  mostly  in  wet  and  rocky  waste  places 
Of  Old  World  origin,  too,  is  the  curled  leaf -dock  (Ru« 
mex  crispus)  that  is  so  annoying  about  one's  garden 
and  home  meadows,  its  long  tapering  root  clinging  to 
the  soil  with  such  tenacity  that  I  have  pulled  upon  it 
till  I  could  see  stars  without  budging  it ;  it  has  more 
lives  than  a  cat,  making  a  shift  to  live  when  pulled 
up  and  laid  on  top  of  the  ground  in  the  burning 
summer  sun.  Our  native  docks  are  mostly  found  in 
swamps,  or  near  them,  and  are  harmless. 

Purslane,  commonly  called  "  pusley,"  and  which 
has  given  rise  to  the  saying  "  as  mean  as  pusley  "  — 
of  course  is  not  American.  A  good  sample  of  our 
native  purslane  is  the  Claytonia,  or  spring  beauty,  a 
shy,  delicate  plant  that  opens  its  rose-colored  flowers 
in  the  moist  sunny  places  in  the  woods  or  along  their 
borders  so  early  in  the  season. 

There  are  few  more  obnoxious  weeds  in  cultivated 
ground  than  sheep-sorrel,  also  an  Old  World  plant, 
while  our  native  wood-sorrel,  with  its  white,  deli- 
cately veined  flowers,  or  the  ^variety  with  yellow 
flowers,  is  quite  harmless.  The  same  is  true  of  the 
mallow,  the  vetch,  or  tare,  and  other  plants.  We 
have  no  native  plant  so  indestructible  as  garden  or- 
pine, or  live-forever,  which  our  grandmothers  nursed 
and  for  which  they  are  cursed  by  many  a  farmer. 
The  fat,  tender  succulent  door-yard  stripling  turned 
out  to  be  a  monster  that  would  devour  the  earth.  I 
have  seen  acres  of  meadow  land  destroyed  by  it. 


A.  BUNCH   OF  HERBS.  231 

The  way  to  di  own  an  amphibious  animal  is  to  never 
allow  it  to  come  to  the  surface  to  breathe,  and  this  is 
the  way  to  kill  live-forever.  It  lives  by  its  stalk 
and  leaf,  more  than  by  its  root,  and  if  cropped  or 
bruised  as  soon  as  it  comes  to  the  surface  it  will  in 
time  perish.  It  laughs  the  plow,  the  hoe,  the  cultiva- 
tor to  scorn,  but  grazing  herds  will  eventually  scotch 
it.  Our  two  species  of  native  orpine,  S.  tematum 
and  S.  telephioides  are  never  troublesome  as  weeds. 

The  European  weeds  are  sophisticated,  domesti- 
cated, civilized ;  they  have  been  to  school  to  man 
for  many  hundred  years  and  they  have  learned  to 
thrive  upon  him;  their  struggle  for  existence  has 
been  sharp  and  protracted ;  it  has  made  them  hardy 
and  prolific ;  they  will  thrive  in  a  lean  soil,  or  they 
will  wax  strong  in  a  rich  one  ;  in  all  cases  they  fol- 
low man  and  profit  by  him.  Our  native  weeds,  on 
the  other  hand,  are  furtive  and  retiring;  they  flee 
before  the  plow  and  the  scythe,  and  hide  in  corners 
and  remote  waste  places.  Will  they,  too,  in  time, 
change  their  habits  in  this  respect  ? 

"  Idle  weeds  are  fast  in  growth,"  says  Shakespeare, 
i.jut  that  depends  whether  the  competition  is  sharp 
and  close.  If  the  weed  finds  itself  distanced,  or 
•Bitted  against  great  odds,  it  grows  more  slowly  and 
u  of  diminished  stature,  but  let  it  once  get  the  upper 
hand  and  what  strides  it  makes !  Red-root  will  grow 
four  or  five  feet  high,  if  it  has  a  chance,  or  it  will 
content  itself  with  a  few  inches  and  mature  its  seedi 
almost  upon  the  ground. 


232  A  BUNCH   OF  HERBS. 

Many  of  our  worst  weeds  are  plants  that  have 
escaped  from  cultivation,  as  the  wild  radish,  which 
is  troublesome  in  parts  of  New  England,  the  wild 
carrot,  which  infests  the  fields  in  eastern  New  York, 
and  live-forever,  which  thrives  and  multiplies  under 
the  plow  and  harrow.  In  my  section  an  annoying 
weed  is  abutilon,  or  velvet-leaf,  also  called  "  old 
maid,"  which  has  fallen  from  the  grace  of  the  gar- 
den and  followed  the  plow  afield.  It  will  manage  to 
mature  its  seeds  if  not  allowed  to  start  till  midsum- 
mer. 

Of  beautiful  weeds  quite  a  long  list  might  be 
made  without  including  any  of  the  so-called  wild 
flowers.  A  favorite  of  mine  is  the  little  moth  mul- 
lein (Verbascum  blatara)  that  blooms  along  the  high- 
way, and  about  the  fields,  and  may  be  upon  the  edge 
of  the  lawn,  from  midsummer  till  frost  comes.  In 
winter  its  slender  stalk  rises  above  the  snow,  bearing 
its  round  seed-pods  on  its  pin-like  stems,  and  is  pleas- 
ing even  then.  Its  flowers  are  yellow  or  white,  large, 
wheel-shaped,  and  are  borne  vertically  with  filaments 
loaded  with  little  tufts  of  violet  wool.  The  plant 
has  none  of  the  coarse,  hairy  character  of  the  common 
mullein.  Our  cone-flower,  which  one  of  our  poets 
has  called  the  "brown-eyed  daisy,"  has  a  pleasing 
effect  when  in  vast  numbers  they  invade  a  meadow 
(if  it  is  not  your  meadow),  their  dark  brown  centres 
or  disks  and  their  golden  rays  showing  conspicu 
ously. 

Bidens,  two-teeth,  or  "pitch-forks,"  as   the  boya 


A  BUNCH  OF   HERBS.  233 

3«dl  them,  are  welcomed  by  the  eye  when  in  late 
summer  they  make  the  swamps  and  wet,  waste  places 
yellow  with  their  blossoms. 

Vervain  is  a  beautiful  weed,  especially  the  blue  or 
purple  variety.  Its  drooping  knotted  threads  also, 
make  a  pretty  etching  upon  the  winter  snow. 

Iron- weed  (  Vernonia)^  which  looks  like  an  over- 
grown aster,  has  the  same  intense  purple-blue  color, 
and  a  royal  profusion  of  flowers.  There  are  giants 
among  the  weeds,  as  well  as  dwarfs  and  pigmies. 
One  of  the  giants  is  purple  eupatorium,  which  some- 
times carries  its  corymbs  of  flesh-colored  flowers  ten 
and  twelve  feet  high.  A  pretty  and  curious  little 
weed,  sometimes  found  growing  in  the  edge  of  the 
garden,  is  the  clasping  specularia,  a  relative  of  the 
harebell  and  of  the  European  Venus's  looking-glass. 
Its  leaves  are  shell-shaped,  and  clasp  the  stalk  so  as 
to  form  little  shallow  cups.  In  the  bottom  of  each 
cup  three  buds  appear  that  never  expand  into  flowers  ; 
but  when  the  top  of  the  stalk  is  reached,  one  and 
sometimes  two  buds  open  a  large,  delicate  purple- 
blue  corolla.  All  the  first-born  of  this  plant  are  still- 
born, as  it  were  ;  only  the  latest,  which  spring  from 
its  summit,  attain  to  perfect  bloom.  A  weed  which 
one  ruthlessly  demolishes  when  he  finds  it  hiding 
from  the  plow  amid  the  strawberries,  or  under  the 
currant-bushes  and  grape-vines,  is  the  dandelion ;  yet 
who  would  banish  it  from  the  meadows  or  the  lawns, 
inhere  it  copies  in  gold  upon  the  green  expanse  the 
stars  of  the  midnight  sky  ?  After  its  first  blooming 


234  A  BUNCH  OF  HERBS. 

comes  its  second,  and  finer  and  more  spiritual  inflo- 
rescence, when  its  stalk,  dropping  its  more  earthly 
and  carnal  flower,  shoots  upward,  and  is  presently 
crowned  by  a  globe  of  the  most  delicate  and  aerial 
texture.  It  is  like  the  poet's  dream,  which  succeeds 
his  rank  -and  golden  youth.  This  globe  is  a  fleet  of 
a  hundred  fairy  balloons,  each  one  of  which  bears  a 
seed  which  it  is  destined  to  drop  far  from  the  parent 
source. 

Most  weeds  have  their  uses ;  they  are  not  wholly 
malevolent.  Emerson  says  a  weed  is  a  plant  whose 
virtues  we  have  not  yet  discovered;  but  the  wild 
creatures  discover  their  virtues,  if  we  do  not.  The 
bumble-bee  has  discovered  that  the  hateful  toad-flax, 
which  nothing  will  eat,  and  which  in  some  soils  will 
run  out  the  grass,  has  honey  at  its  heart.  Narrow- 
leaved  plantain  is  readily  eaten  by  cattle,  and  the 
honey-bee  gathers  much  pollen  from  it.  The  ox- 
eye  daisy  makes  a  fair  quality  of  hay,  if  cut  before 
it  gets  ripe.  The  cows  will  eat  the  leaves  of  the 
burdock  and  the  stinging  nettles  of  the  woods.  But 
what  cannot  a  cow's  tongue  stand  ?  She  will  crop 
the  poison  ivy  with  impunity,  and  I  think  would  eat 
thistles,  if  she  found  them  growing  in  the  garden. 
Leeks  and  garlics  are  readily  eaten  by  cattle  in  the 
spring,  and  are  said  to  be  medicinal  to  them.  Weeds 
that  yield  neither  pasturage  for  bee  nor  herd,  yet 
afford  seeds  to  the  fall  and  winter  birds.  This  is 
true  of  most  of  the  obnoxious  weeds  of  the  garden. 
And  of  thistles.  The  wild  lettuce  yields  down  for  the 


A  BUNCH   OF 

humming-bird's  nest,  and  the  flowers  of  whiteweed 
are  used  by  the  kingbird  and  cedar-bird. 

Yet  it  is  pleasant  to  remember  that,  in  our  climate, 
there  are  no  weeds  so  persistent  and  lasting  and  uni- 
versal as  grass.  Grass  is  the  natural  covering  of  the 
fields.  There  are  but  four  weeds  that  I  know  of — 
milkweed,  live-forever,  Canada  thistle,  and  toad-flax 
—  that  it  will  not  run  out  in  a  good  soil.  We  crop  it 
and  mow  it  year  after  year ;  and  yet,  if  the  season 
favors,  it  is  sure  to  come  again.  Fields  that  have 
never  known  the  plow,  and  never  been  seeded  by 
man,  are  yet  covered  with  grass.  And  in  human 
nature,  too,  weeds  are  by  no  means  in  the  ascendant, 
troublesome  as  they  are.  The  good  green  grass  of 
love  and  truthfulness  and  common  sense  are  more 
universal,  and  crowd  the  idle  weeds  to  the  wall. 

But  weeds  have  this  virtue :  they  are  not  easily 
discouraged ;  they  never  lose  heart  entirely ;  they 
die  game.  If  they  cannot  have  the  best,  they  will 
take  up  with  the  poorest ;  if  fortune  is  unkind  to 
them  to-day,  they  hope  for  better  luck  to-morrow ;  if 
they  cannot  lord  it  over  a  corn-hill,  they  will  sit  hum- 
bly at  its  foot  and  accept  what  comes ;  in  all 
they  make  the  most  of  their  opportunities. 


WINTER   PICTURES. 


WINTER  PICTURES. 
A  WHITE  DAT  AND  A  BED  FOX. 

THE  day  was  indeed  white,  as  white  as  three  feet 
of  snow  and  a  cloudless  St.  Valentine's  sun  could 
make  it  The  eye  could  not  look  forth  without 
blinking,  or  veiling  itself  with  tears.  The  patch  of 
plowed  ground  on  the  top  of  the  hill  where  the  wind 
had  blown  the  snow  away  was  as  welcome  to  it  as 
water  to  a  parched  tongue.  It  was  the  one  refresh- 
ing oasis  in  this  desert  of  dazzling  light.  I  sat  down 
upon  it  to  let  the  eye  bathe  and  revel  in  it.  It  took 
away  the  smart  like  a  poultice.  For  so  gentle  and, 
on  the  whole,  so  beneficent  an  element,  the  snow  as- 
serts itself  very  loudly.  It  takest  he  world  quickly 
und  entirely  to  itself.  It  makes  no  concessions  or 
compromises,  but  rules  despotically.  It  baffles  and 
bewilders  the  eye,  and  it  returns  the  sun  glare  for 
glare.  Its  coming  in  our  winter  climate  is  the  hand 
of  mercy  to  the  earth  and  to  everything  in  its  bosom, 
but  it  is  a  barrier  and  an  embargo  to  everything  that 
moves  above. 

We  toiled  up  the  long  steep  hill  where  only  an  oc- 
casional mullein-stalk  or  other  tall  weed  stood  above 


240  WINTER  PICTURES. 

the  snow.  Near  the  top  the  hill  was  girded  with  a 
bank  of  snow  that  blotted  out  the  stone  wall  and 
every  vestige  of  the  earth  beneath.  These  hills 
wear  this  belt  till  May,  and  sometimes  the  plow 
pauses  beside  them.  From  the  top  of  the  ridge  an 
immense  landscape  in  immaculate  white  stretches  be- 
fore us.  Miles  upon  miles  of  farms,  smoothed  and 
padded  by  the  stainless  element,  hang  upon  the  sides 
of  the  mountains,  or  repose  across  the  long  sloping 
hills.  The  fences  of  stone  walls  show  like  half  ob- 
literated black  lines.  I  turn  nay  back  to  the  sun,  or 
shade  my  eyes  with  my  hand.  Every  object  or 
movement  in  the  landscape  is  sharply  revealed  ;  one 
could  see  a  fox  half  a  league.  The  farmer  foddering 
his  cattle,  or  drawing  manure  afield,  or  leading  his 
horse  to  water,  the  pedestrian  crossing  the  hill  below 
the  children  wending  their  way  toward  the  distant 
Bchool-house,  —  the  eye  cannot  help  but  note  them  ; 
they  are  black  specks  upon  square  miles  of  luminous 
white.  What  a  multitude  of  sins  this  unstinted  char- 
ity of  the  snow  covers !  How  it  flatters  the  ground ! 
Yonder  sterile  field  might  be  a  garden,  and  you  would 
never  suspect  that  that  .gentle  slope  with  its  pretty 
dimples  and  curves  was  not  the  smoothest  of  mead- 
ows, yet  it  is  paved  with  rocks  and  stone. 

But  what  is  that  black  speck  creeping  across  that 
cleared  field  near  the  top  of  the  mountain  at  the  head 
of  the  valley,  three  quarters  of  a  mile  away  ?  It  is 
like  a  fly  moving  across  an  illuminated  surface.  A 
distant  mellow  bay  floats  to  us  and  we  know  it  is  the 


WINTER  PICTURES.  241 

hound.  He  picked  up  the  trail  of  the  fox  half  an 
hour  since,  where  he  had  crossed  the  ridge  early  in 
the  morning,  and  now  he  has  routed  him  and  Rey- 
nard is  steering  for  the  Big  Mountain.  We  press  on, 
attain  the  shoulder  of  the  range,  where  we  strike  a 
trail  two  or  three  days  old,  of  some  former  hunters, 
which  leads  us  into  the  woods  along  the  side  of  the 
mountain.  We  are  on  the  first  plateau  before  the 
summit ;  the  snow  partly  supports  us,  but  when  it 
gives  way  and  we  sound  it  with  our  legs  we  find  it 
up  to  our  hips.  Here  we  enter  a  white  world  indeed. 
It  is  like  some  conjuror's  trick.  The  very  trees  have 
turned  to  snow.  The  smallest  branch  is  like  a  clus- 
ter of  great  white  antlers.  The  eye  is  bewildered 
by  the  soft  fleecy  labyrinth  before  it.  On  the  lower 
ranges  the  forests  were  entirely  bare,  but  now  we 
perceive  the  summit  of  every  mountain  about  us  runs 
up  into  a  kind  of  arctic  region  where  the  "trees  are 
loaded  with  snow.  The  beginning  of  this  colder 
zone  is  sharply  marked  all  around  the  horizon ;  the 
line  runs  as  level  as  the  shore  line  of  a  lake  or  sea ; 
indeed  a  warmer  aerial  sea  fills  all  the  valleys,  sub- 
merging the  lower  peaks,  and  making  white  islands 
of  all  the  higher  ones.  The  branches  bend  with  the 
rime.  The  winds  have  not  shaken  it  down.  It  ad- 
heres to  them  like  a  growth.  On  examination  I  find 
the  branches  coated  with  ice  from  which  shoot  slen- 
der spikes  and  needles  that  penetrate  and  hold  the 
cord  of  snow.  It  is  a  new  kind  of  foliage  wrought 
by  the  frost  and  the  clouds,  and  it  obscures  the  sky 
16 


242  WINTER   PICTURES. 

and  fills  the  vistas  of  the  woods  nearly  as  much  as 
the  myriad  leaves  of  summer.  The  sun  blazes,  the 
sky  is  without  a  cloud  or  a  film,  yet  we  walk  in  a 
soft  white  shade.  A  gentle  breeze  was  blowing  on 
the  open  crest  of  the  mountain,  but  one  could  carry 
a  lighted  candle  through  these  snow-curtained  and 
snow-canopied  chambers.  How  shall  we  see  the  fox 
if  the  hound  drives  him  through  this  white  obscurity  ? 
But  we  listen  in  vain  for  the  voice  of  the  dog  and 
press  on.  Hares'  tracks  were  numerous.  Their 
great  soft  pads  had  left  their  imprint  everywhere, 
sometimes  showing  a  clear  leap  of  ten  feet.  They 
had  regular  circuits  which  we  crossed  at  intervals. 
The  woods  were  well  suited  to  them,  low  and  dense, 
and,  as  we  saw,  liable  at  times  to  wear  a  livery  whiter 
than  their  own. 

The  mice,  too,  how  thick  their  tracks  were,  that 
of  the  white-footed  mouse  (If.  lucopus)  being  most 
abundant ;  but  occasionally  there  was  a  much  finer 
track,  with  strides  or  leaps  scarcely  more  than  an 
inch  apart.  This  is  perhaps  the  little  shrew-mouse 
of  the  woods  (£  personatus?),  the  body  not  more 
than  an  inch  and  a  half  long,  the  smallest  mole  or 
mouse  kind  known  to  me.  Once  while  encamping 
in  the  woods  one  of  these  tiny  shrews  got  into  •»- 

mpty  pail  standing  in  camp,  and  died  before  ? 

ag,  either  from  the  cold,  or  in  despair  of  ever 

ing  out  the  pail. 

At  one   point,  around  a  small    sugar-maple, 
mice-tracks  are  unusually  thick.     It  is  doubtless  th 


WINTER   PICTURES.  243 

granary ;  they  have  beech-nuts  stored  tljere,  I'll  war- 
rant. There  are  two  entrances  to  the  cavity  of  the 
tree,  —  one  at  the  base,  and  one  seven  or  eight  feet 
up.  At  the  upper  one,  which  is  only  just  the  size  of 
a  mouse,  a  squirrel  has  been  trying  to  break  in.  He* 
has  cut  and  chiseled  the  solid  wood  to  the  depth  of 
nearly  an  inch,  and  his  chips  strew  the  snow  all 
about.  He  knows  what  is  in  there,  and  the  mice- 
know  that  he  knows ;  hence  their  apparent  conster- 
nation. They  have  rushed  wildly  about  over  the 
enow,  and,  I  doubt  not,  have  given  the  piratical  red 
squirrel  a  piece  of  their  minds.  A  few  yards  away 
the  mice  have  a  hole  down  into  the  snow,  which 
perhaps  leads  to  some  snug  den  under  the  ground. 
Hither  they  may  have  been  slyly  removing  their 
stores,  while  the  squirrel  was  at  work  with  his  back 
turned.  One  more  night,  and  he  will  effect  an  en- 
trance :  what  a  good  joke  upon  him  if  he  finds  the 
cavity  empty !  These  native  mice  are  very  provident, 
and,  I  imagine,  have  to  take  many  precautions  to 
prevent  their  winter  stores  being  plundered  by  the 
jquirrels,  who  live,  as  it  were,  from  hand  to  mouth. 

We  see  several  fresh  fox-tracks,  and  wish  for  the 
hound ;  but  there  are  no  tidings  of  him.  After  half 
an  hour's  floundering  and  cautiously  picking  our  way 
through  the  woods,  we  emerge  into  a  cleared  field 
that  stretches  up  from  the  valley  below,  and  just  laps 
over  the  back  of  the  mountain  It  is  a  broad  belt  of 
white,  that  drops  down,  and  down,  till  it  joins  other 
fields  that  sweep  along  the  base  of  the  mountain,  a 


244  WINTER  PICTURES. 

mile  away.  To  the  east,  through  a  deep  defile  in  the 
mountains,  a  landscape  in  an  adjoining  county  lifts 
itself  up,  like  a  bank  of  white  and  gray  clouds. 

When  the  experienced  fox  hunter  comes  out  upon 
such  an  eminence  as  this,  he  always  scrutinizes  the 
fields  closely  that  lie  beneath  him,  and  it  many  times 
happens  that  his  sharp  eye  detects  Reynard  asleep 
upon  a  rock  or  a  stone  wall,  in  which  case,  if  he  be 
armed  with  a  rifle  and  his  dog  be  not  near,  the  poor 
creature  never  wakens  from  his  slumber.  The  fox 
nearly  always  takes  his  nap  in  the  open  fields,  along 
the  sides  of  the  ridges,  or  under  the  mountain,  where 
he  can  look  down  upon  the  busy  farms  beneath  and 
hear  their  many  sounds,  the  barking  of  dogs,  the  low- 
ing of  cattle,  the  cackling  of  hens,  the  voices  of  men 
and  boys,  or  the  sound  of  travel  upon  the  highway. 
It  is  on  that  side,  too,  that  he  keeps  the  sharpest  look- 
out, and  the  appearance  of  the  hunter  above  and  be- 
hind him  is  always  a  surprise. 

"We  pause  here,  and  with  alert  ears  turned  toward 
the  Big  Mountain  in  front  of  us,  listen  for  the  dog. 
But  not  a  sound  is  heard.  A  flock  of  snow-buntings 
pass  high  above  us,  uttering  their  contented  twitter, 
»nd  their  white  forms  seen  against  the  intense  blue 
give  the  impression  of  large  snow-flakes  drifting 
Across  the  sky.  I  hear  a  purple  finch,  too,  and  the 
feeble  lisp  of  the  red-pol.  A  shrike  (the  first  I  have 
seen  this  season)  finds  occasion  to  come  this  way 
also.  He  alights  on  the  tip  of  a  dry  limb,  and  from 
his  perch  can  see  into  the  valley  on  both  sides  of  the 


WINTER   PICTURES.  245 

mountain  He  is  prowling  about  for  chickadees,  no 
doubt,  a  troop  of  which  I  saw  coming  through  the 
wood.  When  pursued  by  the  shrike,  the  chickadee 
has  been  seen  to  take  refuge  in  a  squirrel-hole  in  a 
tree.  Hark !  Is  that  the  hound,  or  doth  expectation 
mock  the  eager  ear  ?  With  open  mouths  and  bated 
breaths,  we  listen.  Yes,  it  is  old  "  Singer ;  "  he  is 
bringing  the  fox  over  the  top  of  the  range  toward 
Butt  End,  the  Ultima  Thule  of  the  hunters'  tramps 
in  this  section.  In  a  moment  or  two  the  dog  is  lost 
to  hearing  again.  We  wait  for  his  second  turn  ;  then 
for  his  third. 

"  He  "is  playing  about  the  summit,"  says  my  com- 
panion. 

"  Let  us  go  there,"  say  I,  and  we  were  off. 

More  dense  snow-hung  woods  beyond  the  clearing 
where  we  begin  our  ascent  of  the  Big  Mountain,  — 
a  chief  that  carries  the  range  up  several  hundred  feet 
higher  than  the  part  we  have  thus  far  traversed. 
We  are  occasionally  to  our  hips  in  the  snow,  but  for 
the  most  part  the  older  stratum,  a  foot  or  so  down, 
bears  us  ;  up  and  up  we  go  into  the  dim,  muffled  soli- 
tudes, our  hats  and  coats  powdered  like  millers.  A 
half  hour's  heavy  tramping  brings  us  to  the  broad, 
level  summit,  and  to  where  the  fox  and  hound  has 
crossed  and  recrossed  many  times.  As  we  are  walk- 
ing along  discussing  the  matter,  we  suddenly  hear 
the  dog  coming  straight  on  to  us.  The  woods  are 
BO  choked  with  snow  that  we  do  not  hear  him  till  he 
breaks  up  from  under  the  mountain  within  a  hundred 
yards  Q£  us. 


246  WINTER  PICTURES. 

"  We  have  turned  the  fox ! "  we  both  exclaim, 
much  put  out. 

Sure  enough,  we  have.  The  dog  appears  in  sight, 
is  puzzled  a  moment,  then  turns  sharply  to  the  left, 
and  is  lost  to  eye  and  to  ear  as  quickly  as  if  he  had 
plunged  into  a  cave.  The  woods  are,  indeed,  a  kind 
of  cave,  —  a  cave  of  alabaster,  with  the  sun  shining 
upon  it.  We  take  up  positions  and  wait.  These  old 
hunters  know  exactly  where  to  stand. 

"  If  the  fox  comes  back,"  said  my  companion,  "  he 
will  cross  up  there  or  down  here,''  indicating  two 
points  not  twenty  rods  asunder. 

We  stood  so  that  each  commanded  one  of  the  run- 
ways indicated.  How  light  it  was,  though  the  sun 
was  hidden  !  Every  branch  and  twig  beamed  in  the 
sun  like  a  lamp.  A  downy  woodpecker  below  me 
kept  up  a  great  fuss  and  clatter,  —  all  for  my  benefit, 
I  suspected.  All  about  me  were  great,  soft  mounds, 
where  the  rocks  lay  buried.  It  was  a  cemetery  of 
drift  bowlders.  There  !  that  is  the  hound.  Does  his 
voice  come  across  the  valley  from  the  spur  off  against 
us,  or  is  it  on  our  side  down -under  the  mountain? 
After  an  interval,  just  as  I  am  thinking  the  dog  is 
going  away  from  us  along  the  opposite  range,  his 
voice  comes  up  astonishingly  near.  A  mass  of  snow 
falls  from  a  branch,  and  makes  one  start ;  but  it  is 
not  the  fox.  Then  through  the  white  vista  below  me 
I  catch  a  glimpse  of  something  red  or  yellow,  yel- 
lowish-red or  reddish-yellow;  it  emerges  from  the 
lower  ground  and,  with  an  easy,  jaunty  air,  draw* 


WINTER  PICTURES.  247 

Uear.  I  am  ready  and  just  in  the  mood  to  make 
a  good  shot.  The  fox  stops  just  out  of  range  and 
listens  for  the  hound.  He  looks  as  bright  as  an  au- 
tumn leaf  upon  the  spotless  surface.  Then  he  starts 
on,  but  he  is  not  coming  to  me,  he  is  going  to  the 
other  man.  Oh,  foolish  fox,  you  are  going  straight 
into  the  jaws  of  death  !  My  comrade  stands  just 
there  beside  that  tree.  I  would  gladly  have  given 
Reynard  the  wink,  or  signaled  to  him  if  I  could. 
It  did  seem  a  pity  to  shoot  him,  now  he  was  out  of 
my  reach.  I  cringe  for  him,  when,  crack  goes  the 
gun  !  The  fox  squalls,  picks  himself  up,  and  plunges 
over  the  brink  of  the  mountain.  The  hunter  has  not 
missed  his  aim,  but  the  oil  in  his  gun,  he  says,  has 
weakened  the  strength  of  his  powder.  The  hound, 
hearing  the  report,  came  like  a  whirlwind  and  was 
off  in  hot  pursuit.  Both  fox  and  dog  now  bleed,  — 
the  do£  at  his  heels,  the  fox  from  his  wounds. 

^  * 

In  a  few  minutes  there  came  up  from  under  the 
mountain  that  long,  peculiar  bark,  which  the  hound 
always  makes  when  he  has  run  the  fox  in',  or  when 
something  new  and  extraordinary  has  happened.  In 
this  instance,  he  said  plainly  enough,  "  the  race  is  up, 
the  coward  has  taken  to  his  hole,  ho-o-o-le."  Plung- 
ing down  in  the  direction  of  the  sound,  the  snow  lit- 
erally to  our  waists,  we  were  soon  at  the  spot,  a  great 
ledge  thatched  over  with  three  or  four  feet  of  snow. 
The  dog  was  alternately  licking  his  heels,  and  whining 
and  berating  the  fox.  The  opening  into  which  the 
atter  had  fled  was  partially  closed,  and,  as  I  scraped 


248  WINTER  PICTURES. 

out  and  cleared  away  the  snow,  I  thought  of  the  fa- 
miliar saying,  that  so  far  as  the  sun  shines  in,  the 
enow  will  blow  in.  The  fox,  I  suspect,  has  always 
his  house  of  refuge,  or  knows  at  once  where  to  flee  to 
if  hard  pressed.  This  place  proved  to  be  a  large  ver- 
tical seam  in  the  rock,  into  which  the  dog,  on  a  little 
encouragement  from  his  master,  made  his  way.  I 
thrust  my  head  into  the  ledge's  mouth,  and  in  the  dim 
light  watched  the  dog.  He  progressed  slowly  and 
cautiously  till  only  his  bleeding  heels  were  visible. 
Here  some  obstacle  impeded  him  a  few  moments 
when  he  entirely  disappeared  and  was  presently  face 
to  face  with  the  fox  and  engaged  in  mortal  combat 
with  him.  It  was  a  fierce  encounter  there  beneath 
the  rocks,  the  fox  silent,  the  dog  very  vociferous. 
But  after  a  time  the  superior  weight  and  strength  of 
the  latter  prevails  and  the  fox  is  brought  to  light 
nearly  dead.  Reynard  winks  and  eyes  me  suspi- 
ciously, as  I  stroke  his  head  and  praise  his  heroic 
defense ;  but  the  hunter  quickly  and  mercifully  puts 
an  end  to  his  fast  ebbing  life.  His  canine  teeth  seem 
unusually  large  and  formidable,  and  the  dog  bears  the 
marks  of  them  in  many  deep  gashes  upon  his  face 
and  nose.  His  pelt  was  quickly  stripped  off,  reveal- 
ing his  lean,  sinewy  form. 

The  fox  was  not  as  poor  in  flesh  as  I  expected  to 
gee  him,  though  I  '11  warrant  he  had  tasted  very  little 
food  for  days,  perhaps  for  weeks.  How  his  great 
activity  and  endurance  can  be  kept  up  on  the  spare 
diet  he  must  of  necessity  be  confined  to,  is  a  mystery 


WINTER   PICTURES.  249 

Snow,  snow,  everywhere,  for  weeks  and  for  months, 
and  intense  cold,  and  no  hen-roost  accessible,  and  no 
carcass  of  sheep  or  pig  in  the  neighborhood.  The 
hunter ,  tramping  miles  and  leagues  through  his 
haunts,  rarely  sees  any  sign  of  his  having  caught 
anything.  Rarely,  though,  in  the  course  of  many 
winters  he  may  have  seen  evidence  of  his  having 
surprised  a  rabbit  or  a  partridge,  in  the  woods.  He 
no  doubt  at  this  season  lives  largely  upon  the  mem- 
ory (or  the  fat)  of  the  many  good  dinners  he  had  in 
the  plentiful  summer  and  fall. 

As  we  crossed  the  mountain  on  our  return,  we  saw 
at  one  point  blood-stains  upon  the  snow,  and  as  the 
fox-tracks  were  very  thick  on  and  about  it,  we  con- 
cluded that  a  couple  of  males  had  had  an  encounter 
there,  and  a  pretty  sharp  one.  Reynard  goes  a-woo- 
ing  in.  February,  and  it  is  to  be  presumed  that,  like 
other  dogs,  he  is  a  jealous  lover.  A  crow  had  alighted 
and  examined  the  blood-stains,  and  now  if  he  will 
look  a  little  farther  along,  upon  a  flat  rock  he  will 
find  the  flesh  he  was  looking  for.  Our  hound's  nose 
was  so  blunted  now,  speaking  without  metaphor,  that 
he  would  not  look  at  another  trail,  but  hurried  home 
to  rest  upon  his  laurels. 


250  WINTER   PICTURES. 


A  POTOMAC  SKETCH. 

WHILE  on  a  visit  to  Washington  in  January,  1878 
I  went  on  an  expedition  down  the  Potomac  with  ? 
couple  of  friends  to  shoot  ducks.  We  left  on  th( 
morning  boat  that  makes  daily  trips  to  and  from 
Mount  Vernon.  The  weather  was  chilly  and  tho 
sky  threatening.  The  clouds  had  a  singular  appear 
ance ;  they  were  boat-shaped,  with  well-defined  keels 
I  have  seldom  known  such  clouds  to  bring  rain  ;  they 
are  simply  the  fleet  of  JEolus,  and  so  it  proved  on 
this  occasion,  for  they  gradually  dispersed  or  faded 
out,  and  before  noon  the  sun  was  shining. 

We  saw  numerous  flocks  of  ducks  on  the  passage 
down,  and  saw  a  gun  (the  man  was  concealed)  shoot 
some  from  a  u  blind  "  near  Fort  Washington.  Op- 
posite Mount  Vernon,  on  the  flats,  there  was  a  large 
"bed  "  of  ducks.  I  thought  the  word  a  good  one  to 
describe  a  long  strip  of  water  thickly  planted  with 
them.  One  of  my  friends  was  a  member  of  the 
Washington  and  Mount  Vernon  Ducking  Club,  which 
has  its  camp  and  fixtures  just  below  the  Mount  Ver- 
non landing ;  he  was  an  old  ducker.  For  my  part 
I  had  never  killed  a  duck,  —  except  with  an  ax,  — 
Qor  have  I  yet. 

We  made  our  way  along  the  beach  from  the  laud 
ing,  over  piles  of  drift-wood,  and  soon  reached  the 
quarters,  a  substantial  building,  fitted  up  with  a  stove, 


WINTER  PICTURES.  251 

bunks,  chairs,  a  table,  culinary  utensils,  crockery,  etc., 
with  one  corner  piled  full  of  decoys.  There  were 
boats  to  row  in  and  boxes  to  shoot  from,  and  I  felt 
sure  we  should  have  a  pleasant  time,  whether  we  got 
any  ducks  or  not.  The  weather  improved  hourly, 
till  in  the  afternoon  a  well-defined  installment  of  the 
Indian  summer  that  had  been  delayed  somewhere 
settled  down  upon  the  scene  ;  this  lasted  during  our 
stay  of  two  days.  The  river  was  placid,  even  glassy, 
the  air  richly  and  deeply  toned  with  haze,  and  the 
sun  that  of  the  mellowest  October.  "  The  fairer  the 
weather  the  fewer  the  ducks,"  said  one  of  my  com- 
panions. "  But  this  is  better  than  ducks,"  I  thought, 
and  prayed  that  it  might  last. 

Then  there  was  something  pleasing  to  the  fancy  in 
being  so  near  to  Mount  Vernon.  It  formed  a  sort 
of  rich,  historic  background  to  our  flitting  and  trivial 
experiences.  Just  where  the  eye  of  the  great  Cap- 
tain would  perhaps  first  strike  the  water  as  he  came 
out  in  the  morning  to  take  a  turn  up  and  down  his 
long  piazza,  the  Club  had  formerly  had  a  "  blind," 
but  the  ice  of  a  few  weeks  before  our  visit  had  car- 
ried it  away.  A  little  lower  down,  and  in  full  view 
from  his  bedroom  window,  was  the  place  where  the 
shooting  from  the  boxes  was  usually  done. 

The  duck  is  an  early  bird,  and  not  much  given  to 
wandering  about  in  the  afternoon ;  hence  it  was 
thought  not  worth  while  to  put  out  the  decoys  till 
the  next  morning.  We  would  spend  the  afternoon 
roaming  inland  in  quest  of  quail,  or  rabbits,  or  tur- 


252  WINTER   PICTURES. 

keys  (for  a  brood  of  the  last  were  known  to  lurk 
about  the  woods  back  there).  It  was  a  delightful 
afternoon's  tramp  through  oak  woods,  pine  barrens, 
and  half-wild  fields.  We  flushed  several  quail  that 
the  dog  should  have  pointed,  and  put  a  rabbit  to  rout 
by  a  well-directed  broadside,  but  brought  no  game  to 
camp.  We  kicked  about  an  old  bushy  clearing,  where 
my  friends  had  shot  a  wild  turkey  Thanksgiving  Day, 
but  the  turkey  could  not  be  started  again.  One  shoot- 
ing had  sufficed  for  it.  We  crossed  or  penetrated 
extensive  pine  woods  that  had  once  (perhaps  in 
Washington's  time)  been  cultivated  fields  ;  the  mark 
of  the  plow  was  still  clearly  visible.  The  land  had 
been  thrown  into  ridges,  after  the  manner  of  English 
fields,  eight  or  ten  feet  wide,  with  a  deep  dead  furrow 
between  them  for  purposes  of  drainage.  The  pines 
were  scrubby,  —  what  are  known  as  the  loblolly  pines, 
—  and  from  ten  to  twelve  inches  through  at  the  butt. 
In  a  low  bottom  among  some  red  cedars,  I  saw  rob- 
ins and  several  hermit  thrushes,  besides  the  yellow- 
rumped  warbler. 

That  night,  as  the  sun  went  down  on  the  one  hand, 
the  full  moon  rose  up  on  the  other,  like  the  opposite 
Bide  of  an  enormous  scale.  The  river,  too,  was  pres- 
ently brimming  with  the  flood  tide.  It  was  so  still 
one  could  have  carried  a  lighted  candle  from  shore 
to  shore.  In  a  little  skiff,  we  floated  and  paddled  up 
under  the  shadow  of  Mount  Vernon  and  into  the 
mouth  of  a  large  creek  that  flanks  it  on  the  left.  In 
the  profound  hush  of  things,  every  sound  on  eithe/ 


WINTER  PICTURES.  253 

shore  was  distinctly  heard.  A  large  bed  of  ducks 
were  feeding  over  on  the  Maryland  side,  a  mile  or 
more  away,  and  the  multitudinous  sputtering  and 
shuffling  of  their  bills  in  the  water  sounded  decep- 
tively n^ar.  Silently  we  paddled  in  that  direction. 
When  about  half  a  mile  from  them,  all  sound  of  feed- 
ing suddenly  ceased ;  then,  after  a  time,  as  we  kept 
on,  there  was  a  great  clamor  of  wings,  and  the  whole 
bed  appeared  to  take  flight.  We  paused  and  listened, 
and  presently  heard  them  take  to  the  water  again, 
far  below  and  beyond  us. 

We  loaded  a  boat  with  the  decoys  that  night,  and 
in  the  morning,  on  the  first  sign  of  day,  towed  a  box 
out  in  position,  and  anchored  it,  and  disposed  the  de- 
coys about  it.  Two  hundred  painted  wooden  ducks, 
each  anchored  by  a  small  weight  that  was  attached 
by  a  cord  to  the  breast,  bowed  and  sidled  and  rode 
the  water,  and  did  everything  but  feed,  in  a  bed  many 
yards  long.  The  shooting-box  is  a  kind  of  coffin,  in 
which  the  gunner  is  interred  amid  the  decoys,  — 
buried  below  the  surface  of  the  water,  and  invisible, 
except  from  a  point  above  him.  The  box  has  broad 
canvas  wings,  that  unfold  and  spread  out  upon  the 
surface  of  the  water,  four  or  five  feet  each  way. 
These  steady  it,  and  keep  the  ripples  from  running  in 
when  there  is  a  breeze.  Iron  decoys  sit  upon  these 
wings  and  upon  the  edge  of  the  box,  and  sink  it  to 
the  required  level,  so  that  when  everything  is  com- 
pleted and  the  gunner  is  in  position,  from  a  distance 
or  from  the  shore  one  sees  only  a  large  bed  of  ducks, 


254  WINTER  PICTURES. 

with  the  line  a  little  more  pronounced  in  the  centre, 
where  the  sportsman  lies  entombed,  to  be  quickly 
resurrected  when  the  game  appears.  He  lies  there 
stark  and  stiff  upon  his  back,  like  a  marble  effigy 
upon  a  tomb,  his  gun  by  his  side,  with  barely  room 
to  straighten  himself  in,  and  nothing  to  look  at  but 
the  sky  above  him.  His  companions  on  shore  keep 
a  lookout,  and,  when  ducks  are  seen  on  the  wing,  cry 
out,  "  Mark,  coming  up,"  or  "  Mark,  coming  down," 
or,  "  Mark,  coming  in,"  as  the  case  may  be.  If  they 
decoy,  the  gunner  presently  hears  the  whistle  of  their 
wings,  or  may  be  he  catches  a  glimpse  of  them  over 
the  rim  of  the  box,  as  they  circle  about.  Just  as  they 
let  down  their  feet  to  alight,  he  is  expected  to  spring 
up  and  pour  his  broadside  into  them.  A  boat  from 
shore  comes  and  picks  up  the  game,  if  there  is  any 
to  pick  up. 

The  club-man,  by  common  consent,  was  the  first 
in  the  box  that  morning  ;  but  only  a  few  ducks  were 
moving,  and  he  had  lain  there  an  hour  before  we 
marked  a  solitary  bird  approaching,  and,  after  cir- 
cling over  the  decoys,  alighting  a  little  beyond  them. 
The  sportsman  sprang  'up  as  from  the  bed  of  the 
river,  and  the  duck  sprang  up  at  the  same  time,  and 
got  away,  under  fire.  After  a  while  my  other  com- 
panion went  out ;  but  the  ducks  passed  by  on  the 
other  side,  and  he  had  no  shots.  In  the  afternoon, 
remembering  the  robins,  and  that  robins  are  game 
when  one's  larder  is  low,  I  set  out  alone  for  the  pine 
bottoms,  a  mile  or  more  distant.  When  one  is  loaded 


WINTER  HCTURES.  255 

for  robins,  he  may  expect  to  see  turkeys,  and  vice 
versa.  As  I  was  walking  carelessly  on  the  borders 
of  an  old  brambly  field  that  stretched  a  long  distance 
beside  the  pine-woods,  I  heard  a  noise  in  front  of  me, 
and,  on  looking  in  that  direction,  saw  a  veritable  tur- 
key, with  a  spread  tail,  leaping  along  at  a  rapid  rate. 
She  was  so  completely  the  image  of  the  barn-yard 
fowl  that  I  was  slow  to  realize  that  here  was  the 
most  notable  game  of  that  part  of  Virginia,  for  the 
sight  of  which  sportsmen's  eyes  do  water.  As  she 
was  fairly  on  the  wing,  I  sent  my  robin-shot  after 
her ;  but  they  made  no  impression,  and  I  stood  and 
watched  with  great  interest  her  long,  level  flight. 
As  she  neared  the  end  of  the  clearing,  she  set  her 
wings  and  sailed  straight  into  the  corner  of  the 
woods.  I  found  no  robins,  but  went  back  satisfied 
with  having  seen  the  turkey,  and  having  had  an  ex- 
perience that  I  knew  would  stir  up  the  envy  and  the 
disgust  of  my  companions.  They  listened  with  ill- 
concealed  impatience,  stamped  the  ground  a  few 
times,  uttered  a  vehement  protest  against  the  caprice 
of  fortune  that  always  puts  the  game  in  the  wrong 
place  or  the  gun  in  the  wrong  hands,  and  rushed  off 
in  quest  of  that  turkey.  She  was  not  where  they 
looked,  of  course ;  and,  on  their  return  about  sun- 
down, when  they  had  ceased  to  think  about  their 
game  she  flew  out  of  the  top  of  a  pine-tree  not  thirty 
rods  from  camp,  and  in  full  view  of  them,  but  too 
far  off  for  a  shot. 

In  my  wanderings  that  afternoon,  I  came   upon 


256  WINTER   PICTURES. 

two  negro  shanties  in  a  small  triangular  clearing  in 
the  woods ;  no  road  but  only  a  foot-path  led  to  them. 
Three  or  four  children,  the  eldest  a  girl  of  twelve, 
were  about  the  door  of  one  of  them.  I  approached 
and  asked  for  a  drink  of  water.  The  girl  got  a  glass 
and  showed  me  to  the  spring  near  by. 

"  We's  grandmover's  daughter's  chilern,"  she  said, 
in  reply  to  my  inquiry.  Their  mother  worked  in 
Washington  for  "  eighteen  cents  a  month,"  and  their 
grandmother  took  care  of  them. 

Then  I  thought  I  would  pump  h«r  about  the  nat- 
ural history  of  the  place. 

"  What  was  there  in  these  woods,  —  what  kind  of 
animals,  —  any  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  sah,  when  we  first  come  here  to  live  in 
dese  bottoms  de  'possums  and  foxes  and  things  were 
so  thick  you  could  hardly  go  out-o'-doors."  A  fox 
had  come  along  one  day  right  where  her  mother  was 
washing,  and  they  used  to  catch  the  chickens  "  dread- 
ful." 

"  Were  there  any  snakes  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sah ;  black  snakes,  mocassins,  and  doctors." 

The  doctor,  she  said,  was  a  powerful  ugly  cus- 
tomer ;  it  would  get  right  hold  of  your  leg  as  you 
were  passing  along,  and  whip  and  sting  you  to  death. 
I  hoped  I  should  not  meet  any  "  doctors." 

I  asked  her  if  they  caught  any  rabbits. 

"  Oh  yes,  we  catches  dem  in  '  gums '." 

"What  are  gums?"  I  asked. 

"  See  dat  down  dare  ?    Dat  's  a  '  gum  V 


WINTER  PICTURES.  257 

I  saw  a  rude  box-trap  made  of  rough  boards.  It 
seems  these  traps,  and  many  other  things,  such  as 
bee-hives,  and  tubs,  etc.,  are  frequently  made  in  the 
South  from  a  hollow  gum-tree  ;  hence  the  name  gum 
has  come  to  have  a  wide  application. 

The  ducks  flew  quite  briskly  that  night ;  I  could 
hear  the  whistle  of  their  wings  as  I  stood  upon  the 
shore  indulging  myself  in  listening.  The  ear  loves 
a  good  field  as  well  as  the  eye,  and  the  night  is  the 
best  time  to  listen,  to  put  your  ear  to  nature's  key- 
hole and  see  what  the  whisperings  and  the  prepara- 
tions mean. 

"  Dark  night,  that  from  the  eye  his  function  takes, 
The  ear  more  quick  of  apprehension  makes," 

says  Shakespeare.  I  overheard  some  muskrats  en- 
gage in  a  very  gentle  and  affectionate  jabber  beneath 
a  rude  pier  of  brush  and  earth,  upon  which  I  was 
standing.  The  old,  old  story  was  evidently  being  re- 
hearsed under  there,  but  the  occasional  splashing  of 
the  ice-cold  water  made  it  seem  like  very  chilling 
business  ;  still  we  all  know  it  is  not.  Our  decoys 
had  not  been  brought  in,  and  I  distinctly  heard  some 
ducks  splash  in  among  them.  The  sound  of  oar-locks 
in  the  distance  next  caught  my  ears.  They  were  so 
far  away  that  it  took  some  time  to  decide  whether 
or  not  they  were  approaching.  But  they  finally 
grew  more  distinct,  the  steady,  measured  beat  of  an 
oar  in  a  wooden  lock,  a  very  pleasing  sound  coming 
over  still,  moonlit  waters.  It  was  an  hour  before  the 
boat  emerged  into  view  and  passed  my  post.  A 
17 


258  WINTER  PICTURES. 

white,  misty  obscurity  began  to  gather  over  the 
waters,  and  in  the  morning  this  had  grown  to  be  a 
dense  fog.  By  early  dawn  one  of  rny  friends  was 
again  in  the  box,  and  presently  his  gun  went  bang! 
bang !  then  bang  !  came  again  from  the  second  gun  he 
had  taken  with  him,  and  we  imagined  the  water  strewn 
with  ducks.  But  he  reported  only  one.  It  floated 
to  him  and  was  picked  up,  so  we  need  not  go  out. 
In  the  dimness  and  silence  we  rowed  up  and  down 
the  shore  in  hopes  of  starting  up  a  stray  duck  that 
might  possibly  decoy.  We  saw  many  objects  that 
simulated  ducks  pretty  well  through  the  obscurity, 
but  they  failed  to  take  wing  on  our  approach.  The 
most  pleasing  thing  we  saw  was  a  large,  rude  boat, 
propelled  by  four  colored  oarsmen.  It  looked  as  if 
it  might  have  come  out  of  some  old  picture.  Two 
oarsmen  were  seated  in  the  bows,  pulling,  and  two 
stood  up  in  the  stern,  facing  their  companions,  each 
working  a  long  oar,  bending  and  recovering  and  ut- 
tering a  low,  wild  chant.  The  spectacle  emerged 
from  the  fog  on  the  one  hand  and  plunged  into  it 
on  the  other. 

Later  in  the  morning,  .we  were  attracted  by  an- 
other craft.  We  heard  it  coming  down  upon  us  long 
before  it  emerged  into  view.  It  made  a  sound  aa 
of  some  unwieldy  creature  slowly  pawing  the  water 
and  when  it  became  visible  through  the  fog  the  sight 
did  not  belie  the  ear.  We  beheld  an  awkward  black 
hulk  that  looked  as  if  it  might  have  been  made  out  oi 
the  bones  of  the  first  steamboat,  or  was  it  some  Vir 


WINTER   PICT 

ginia  colored  man's  study  of  that  craft-?""  Ifs"wheels 
consisted  each  of  two  timbers  crossing  each  other  at 
right  angles.  As  the  shaft  slowly  turned,  these  tim- 
bers pawed  and  paw  ed  the  water.  It  hove  to  on  the 
flats  near  our  quarters,  and  a  colored  man  came  off 
in  a  boat.  To  our  inquiry,  he  said  with  a  grin  that 
his  craft  was  a  "  floating  saw-mill." 

After  a  while  I  took  my  turn  in  the  box,  and,  with 
a  life-preserver  for  a  pillow,  lay  there  on  my  back, 
pressed  down  between  the  narrow  sides,  the  muzzle 
of  my  gun  resting  upon  my  toe  and  its  stock  upon 
my  stomach,  waiting  for  the  silly  ducks  to  come.  I 
was  rather  in  hopes  they  would  not  come,  for  I  felt 
pretty  certain  that  I  could  not  get  up  promptly  in 
such  narrow  quarters  and  deliver  my  shot  with  any 
precision.  As  nothing  could  be  seen,  and  as  it  was 
very  still,  it  was  a  good  time  to  listen  again.  I  was 
virtually  under  water,  and  in  a  good  medium  for  the 
transmission  of  sounds.  The  barking  of  dogs  on  the 
Maryland  shore  was  quite  audible,  and  I  heard  with 
great  distinctness  a  Maryland  lass  call  some  one  to 
breakfast.  They  were  astir  up  at  Mount  Vernon, 
too,  though  the  fog  hid  them  from  view.  I  heard 
the  mocking  or  Carolina  wren  along  shore  calling 
quite  plainly  the  words  a  Georgetown  poet  has  put 
in  his  mouth,  "  Sweet-heart,  sweet-heart,  sweet ! " 
Presently  I  heard  the  whistle  of  approaching  wings, 
and  a  solitary  duck  alighted  back  of  me  over  my  right 
shoulder  —  just  the  most  awkward  position  forme 
she  could  have  assumed.  I  raised  my  head  a  little, 


260  WINTER   PICTURES. 

and  skimmed  the  water,  with  my  eye.  The  duck  was 
swimming  about  just  beyond  the  decoys,  apparently 
apprehensive  that  she  was  intruding  upon  the  society 
of  her  betters.  She  would  approach  a  little,  and 
then,  as  the  stiff,  aristocratic  decoys  made  no  sign  of 
welcome  or  recognition,  she  would  sidle  off  again. 
"  Who  are  they,  that  they  should  hold  themselves  so 
loftily  and  never  condescend  to  notice  a  forlorn 
duck  ?  "  I  imagined  her  saying.  Should  1  spring  up 
and  show  my  hand  and  demand  her  surrender  ?  It 
was  clearly  my  duty  to  do  so.  I  wondered  if  the 
boys  were  looking  from  shore,  for  the  fog  had  lifted 
a  little.  But  I  must  act,  or  the  duck  would  be  off. 
I  began  to  turn  slowly  in  my  sepulchre  and  to  gather 
up  my  benumbed  limbs ;  I  then  made  a  rush  and  got 
up,  and  had  a  fairly  good  shot  as  the  duck  flew  across 
my  bows,  but  I  failed  to  stop  her.  A  man  in  the 
woods  in  the  line  of  my  shot  cried  out,  angrily,  "  Stop 
shooting  this  way  ! " 

I  laid  down  again  and  faced  the  sun,  that  had  now 
burnt  its  way  through  the  fog,  till  I  was  nearly  blind, 
but  no  more  ducks  decoyed,  and  I  called  out  to  be 
relieved. 

With  our  one  duck,  but  with  many  pleasant  re- 
membrances, we  returned  to  Washington  that  after- 
noon. 


14  DAY  USE 


. 


RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


pis- 


MAY  i 

LD  21A-50m-3,'62 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


